Swann’s Way, paragraph 27
But the only one of us for whom Swann’s arrival became the object of painful preoccupation was me. It was just that on nights when visitors were there, or simply Monsieur Swann, Maman wouldn’t come up to my room. I’d eat before everyone else, and afterward I’d go sit at the table until eight, when it was expected I’d go upstairs; I’d have to carry this precious, fragile kiss, which Maman usually gave me in my bed when I fell asleep, from the dining room to my own room and hold on to it the whole time I undressed, without its sweetness breaking, without its volatile essence dispersing and evaporating, and, on those very evenings when I’d have needed to receive it with far greater care, I had to seize it, I had to steal it suddenly, publicly, without even the time and presence of mind necessary to pay what I was doing the attention that maniacs do when they try not to think of anything else while they close a door, so that, when pathological uncertainty comes over them again, they can victoriously fight it off with the memory of the moment when they closed it.