Every so often, I read a novel and I experience all the clichés: my heart leaps into my throat, my pulse races, I'm stunned speechless. All this tawdry emotion occurs when I read sentences like this:
"He wasn't a seducer. He was remote. He was like a man preceded into a room by acrobats."
"Now it was like the labored conversation among guests at a late hour after there is nothing more to say, nothing but ashes in the fireplace, dishes in the sink, a chill in the room, a return to ordinary estrangement."