Proust, Habit and A Cold in the Head

The temptation to stay indoors and read Proust has been given
full validation today.

A head cold, worthy of the attention of
the great hypochondriac himself, is all I needed
to take a break from gardening and to get involved
in thinking about Sainte-Beuve, literary criticism
and the deep inner "self" that is the mythic creation
of so many modern writers.

Does "le moi profond" actually exist?
Is everybody, as Proust thought, capable
of writing great works of literature by
getting in contact with "le moi créateur"?

Sitting here, drinking Carragheen green tea laced
with honey. Memories may rise from the cup,
as they did for Proust.