Among the rooms which used most commonly to take shape in my mind during my long nights of sleeplessness, there was none that differed more utterly from the rooms at Combray, thickly powdered with the motes of an atmosphere granular, pollenous, edible and instinct with piety, than my room in the Grand Hôtel de la Plage, at Balbec, the walls of which, washed with ripolin, contained, like the polished sides of a basin in which the water glows with a blue, lurking fire, a finer air, pure, azure-tinted, saline.
Nire insomnio-gauetan haien irudia maizenik oroitu ohi nituèn gelen artean, batek berak ere ez zuen Combrayko gelekiko antz gutxiagorik-haiek egurats pikortsu, polinizatu, jangarri eta eraspentsu batez hautseztatuak izaten baitziren-Balbec-eko "Grand Hôtel de la Plage"koak baino: hango paretek, lakaz pintatuek, ur urdineko igerileku bateko horma txukunek bezalatsu, aire garbi, zeru-kolore eta kresaltsua edeten baitzuten.