The Death of Noah Glass

The hum of the day had gone, and the golden light. All around were ordinary things, his possessions, his furniture, remade as block shapes and shadowy presences. The night spoke to him in the language of child sensations retrieved: a clock that might have been a face, the taste of warm milk at bedtime, the secret lives of keys and cupboards and windows and paintings, a head resting on a pillow, the strange menace of hanging clothes.