He's not my most favorite author, but man can Albert Camus paint an image.
"She was breathing deeply, she forgot the cold, the
weight of beings, the insane or static life, the long anguish of living
or dying. After so many years running from fear, fleeing crazily,
uselessly, she was finally coming to a halt. At the same time she seemed
to be recovering her roots, and the sap rose anew in her body, which
was no longer trembling. Pressing her whole belly against the parapet,
leaning toward the wheeling sky, she was only waiting for her pounding
heart to settle down, and for the silence to form in her. The last
constellations of stars fell in bunches a little lower on the horizon of
the desert, and stood motionless. Then, with an unbearable sweetness,
the waters of the night began to fill her, submerging the cold, rising
gradually to the center of her being, and overflowing wave upon wave to
her moaning mouth. A moment later, the whole sky stretched out above her
as she lay with her back against the cold earth."
Albert Camus
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