There was a time, usually late in August, when summer struck the trees with dazzling power and they were rich with leaves but then became, suddenly one day, strangely still, as if in expectation and at that moment aware. They knew. Everything knew, the beetles, the frogs, the crows solemnly walking across the lawn. The sun was at its zenith and embraced the world, but it was ending, all that one loved was at risk.
Last year I read an article titled “The Greatest Novelist You Haven’t Read” at Slate. Based on the heft of a single quoted line (“They made love like it was a violent crime”), I purchased this novel, and quickly discovered that the title of that article was entirely justified.