"The madness of an autumn prairie cold front coming through. You could feel it: something terrible was going to happen. The sun low in the sky, a minor light, a cooling star. Gust after gust of disorder. Trees restless, temperatures falling, the whole northern religion of things coming to an end. No children in the yards here. Shadows lenghthened on yellowing yoysia . Red oaks and pin oaks and swamp white oaks rained acorns on houses with no mortgage. Strorm windows shuddered in the empty bedrooms. And the drone and hiccup of a clothes dryer, the nasal contention of a leafblower, the ripening of local apples in a paper bag, the smell of the gasoline with wich Aldred Lambert had cleaned the paintbrush from his morning painting of the wicker love seat." The Corrections - Jonathan Franzen