. . . a dark and stormy night.
Well, not really.
That's just an illustration of the type of prose in a book that I'm trying to read, and I may not succeed.
In the space of one page, I have read:
I could carry on his war against the old-money snobbery of this town that for years had dulled the lacquer of his magnificent achievement.and,
. . . and so stepped back in time, my childhood around me like broken glass.and,
I saw it all, unyellowed by time; then I blinked and it was gone, ashes in a sudden wind.I am in simile/metaphor hell.
I may not survive.