`Have you ever read Proust?' he asked her.
`I've tried, but he bores me.'
`He's really very extraordinary.'
`Possibly! But he bores me: all that sophistication! He doesn't have feelings, he only has streams of words  about feelings. I'm tired of self−important mentalities.'
`Would you prefer self−important animalities?'
`Perhaps! But one might possibly get something that wasn't self−important.'
`Well, I like Proust's subtlety and his well−bred anarchy.'
`It makes you very dead, really.'