Engulfed in the noise and the dust.

Whenever I see something beautiful in a book, I like to reread it two or three times over before I continue with the paragraph or the sentence. Then, I move on and forget about it, or in this case I write it on my arm. I remembered the exact wording of the phrase and even the placing of the passage on the page, but I could not remember the context.

"I was engulfed in the noise and the dust." -The Stranger

A truck had passed by Meursault and his buddy, Emmanuel, and they decide to hitch-hike it. They chase after it through the shipyard (they were observing the freighters in the harbor) and the entire time Meursault complains in his head. After finally boarding their transport Meursault is still complaining about the cloud of dust and sun while Emmanuel is laughing the oxygen from his lungs. This was the first time I noticed, or maybe it had caught up to me, that the author is taking this ordinary experience and truly maximizing the potential of it, by freezing it forever in art. As if, by somehow noting every minute detail of every mundane happening, every moment can become significant, because the way you remember it will be more enriched than what actually happened.
Or at least that is what it meant to me.