“On my first night there, I sat on the bad during the twilight while the walls went slowly from gray to gold to black, listening to a soprano's voice climb dizzily up and down somewhere at the other end of the hall until at last the light was completely gone, and the faraway soprano spiraled on and on in the darkness like some angel of death, and I can't remember the air even seeming as high and cold and rarefied as it was that night, or ever feeling farther away from the low-slung lines of dusty Piano.”
Book:The Secret History
