There are some spectacular stretches of scenery on Interstate 64 between Beckley, West Virginia, and Lexington, Virginia, but the rain and fog made it difficult to capture them this time.

Looking at the snapshots this morning, I think of the Proust we’re reading for class, selections from Swann’s Way. I think about how Proust would be able to parse the fog for us, take us into the cloud banks and out again with memories as sleek and silvery and slippery as a fish.

What may seem obscure, remote and impenetrable is, upon reflection, packed with meaning. The difficulty lies not in the absence of material but in the abundance of it.

Proust’s meaning is never superimposed, though. It is organic; it grows out of repetition and early familiarity. It accumulates, layer upon layer, as a result of daily living — fully conscious daily living.