The pink and white hawthorne's encountered along Swann's way. These are dogwoods? Well, who knew? They are lovely, and Proust described them wonderfully. He described everything wonderfully.
My one discovery: when asked to discuss Proust, a lot of writers instead talk about themselves. Interesting, no? I wonder if it's not because we go to the deepest levels of meaning, with Proust, and like poetry, something deep inside is touched. Au fond, as it were. Lord, I wish I were really proficient in French.