A tangled thicket of grasses, weeds, and thistles crackled in the fire of the afternoon. The sleeping garden was resonant with flies. The golden field of stubble shouted in the sun like a tawny cloud of locusts; in the thick rain of fire the crickets screamed; seed pods exploded softly like grasshoppers,
And over the fence the sheepskin of grass lifted in a hump, as if the garden had turned over in its sleep, its broad, peasant back rising and falling as it breathed on the stillness of the earth. There the untidy, feminine ripeness of August had expanded into enormous impenetrable clumps of burdocks spreading their sheets of leafy tin, their luxuriant tongues of fleshy greenery. These, those protuberant bur clumps spread themselves, like resting peasant women, half enveloped in their own swirling skirts.Bruno Schulz, The Street of Crocodiles, published 1963.
There isn't much for me to say, is there? If you are not trembling now, your heart climaxing into little flutters of panic that something so beautiful exists and no one else knows, then you definitely need to read it again. This book, as I've said before, is the sort of book that you read slowly and savouringly, and trickle your mind over every word and image.
I feel that it couldn't possibly get any more wonderful, and then I read another sentence and am prove wrong.