No writer penned the forms of love better than Marcel Proust. Watch how the sight of his grandmother's hotel room, her chair in particular, gets his imagination spinning:
"It's furnishings were also different, including armchairs embroidered in filigree and embossed with pink flowers, which seemed to be the source of the fresh and pleasant smell one encountered on entering. At that late-morning moment, when rays of sunlight came in from more than one aspect and seemingly from other times of day, breaking the angles of the walls, setting side by side on the chest of drawers a reflection from the beach and a wayside altar of colors as variegated as flowers along a lane, alighting brightly on the wainscot with the warm tremble of folded wings ready to fly away, warming like bathwater a country mat by the little courtyard window, which the sunshine festooned like a vine, adding to the charm and the decorative complexity of the furnishings by seeming to peel away the flowered silk of the armchairs and unpick their braidings, that room where I loitered for a moment before dressing for outing was a prism in which the colors of the light from outside were dispersed, a hive in which all the heady nectars of the day awaiting me were still separate and ungathered but already visible, a garden of hopes shimmering with shafts of silver and rose petals. My very first act had been to open my curtains, in my impatience to see which sea was playing by the shore each morning like a Nereid. Whichever one it was, it was never there for more than a day. The following day, it would be replaced by another one, which at times resembled it; but I never saw the same one twice"
"Place Names: The Place," In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower
