Once in a while you read a book in one long sitting, well almost. And not necessarily because it is a magnificent work of literature. Sometimes it's just a voice speaking to you from the pages or maybe a melody you hear from behind the sentences. And occasionally this voice, this melody stirs an old memory and you have to hold your breath for a second, listen to your heart beating and then you look up from the pages and it's all good out there, the green hedge with the blackbirds nesting, the flowering wisteria, the cat asleep below your seat, sunlight filtering through the Douglas fir, your coffee gone cold.

Fear is a force like seasickness, you could call it a life-sickness, a terrible nausea caused by dread, creeping dread, that seems to withdraw a little in dreams while you sleep, but then, just a few moments after waking, rushes back close to you, and begins again to gnaw at your simple requirements for human peace. Gnawing, gnawing, with long ratlike teeth. No one can live through that without changing.

Sebastian Barry, On Cannan's side

(with quite a handful of clichés on Ireland, but never mind)