But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after
the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still,
alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more
persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a
long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their
moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the
tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of
recollection.

Proust -- From Swann's Way