I have been reading the Journals of John Cheever. I am captivated by this insight, this great coverage of life, and the keen observations of a man with his back against the wall. Every now and then I stumble across a passage that I just love. It is not thunder, but a subtle instinct that will haunt your mind:

By John Cheever --

Very humid. The air over the Hudson Valley is like a discolored fog. A baneful sun is reflected in the window of the hardware store. I sit on the terrace reading about the torments of Scott Fitzgerald. I am, he was, one of those men who read the grievous accounts of hard-drinking, self-destructive authors, holding a glass of whiskey  in our hands, the tears pouring down our cheeks. Thunder at three. The old dog trembles, and is so frightened that she vomits. The wind slams some doors within the house, and I smell the rain, minutes before it begins to fall on my land. What I smell is the smell of damp country churches, the back hallways of houses where I was contented and happy, privies, wet bathing suits – an odor, it seems, of joy. When Fitzgerald drops dead, I burst into tears, as I wept over the account of Dylan Thomas’ death. This morning I cannot remember anything that occurred after dinner.