His presence, after all, disturbs our arrogant pretensions and suitheistic fantasies.

So when they were working that evening at the pumps, there was on this head no small gamesomeness slily going on among them, as they stood with their feet continually overflowed by the rippling clear water; …

Proust's novel grew and deepened into over 3,000 pages of everything and nothing: a Möbius strip of profundity twisting into mundanity, mundanity twisting into profundity.

I ſee its Sables wove by Deſtiny.