To be inscribed beneath a tableau.

I want to describe the charming Glaukos, gently gathering up a heap of his love letters in a ray of sunlight. All written on fine perfumed paper, some already old, some from a few months ago, all of them beginning with: My dear little Glaukos, or my darling Glaukos, or oh you, the best of my friends, or little soft flesh of mine, or my little beloved.
Glaukos smiles at the memory of great violent passions that stirred him in days gone by, his lovely clear eyes, blue flowers, dimming for a moment, drawing him back onto his sleepless bed, filling his mind with foolish fancies and infinite despairs.
All his hopeless dreams of being loved as distractedly as he loved, by this person or that person, he had realized almost all of them. But satisfied love flies elsewhere. Today his heart is calm. But he has so many male friends and by some he is loved boundlessly. All of them are very beautiful, and delight in subtle thoughts. Often seated on the muscular knees of one of them, cheek to cheek, bodies entwined, he discusses with him Aristotle’s philosophy and Euripedes’ poems, while they embrace and caress each other, making elegant and wise remarks in the sumptuous room, beside magnificent flowers…
I have described Glaukos dreaming alone, nearly naked to show off his beauty before dressing in precious linen. He smiles and the sun warms him.

M. Proust
Written before 15 October 1888.

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