"All of a sudden, a memory appeared to me. This taste, it was the taste of the little piece of madeleine on a Sunday morning in Combray (because on that day I did not go out before mass), a piece that when I went to bid good morning to her in her room, my Aunt Léonie offered me after having soaked it in her tilleul tea. The sight of the little madeleine hadn't sparked my memory before I tasted it; maybe because, having often seen madeleines since, without eating them, on the shelves of pastry chefs, their image had left those days of Combray to bond with other images more recent"