I'm only about 50 pages into Blake Butler's There Is No Year, and progress is impeded again and again as I flip back to reread sentences and passages I can't stop thinking about. The rhythm, the weight, is entrancing:
They purred secret sentences in silent rising spiral until the sky at last had drunk so much it sunk to night---the night not out of cycle but in insistence, demanded in the skin, the unseen smoke of body after body sewn surrounding until the mother, at least could not see---could not feel the air even around her, or her other---could not feel anything at all---and in the dark the mother stuttered---and in the dark again the mother walked.
It reads almost like poetry (dark, haunted stanzas):
He pressed his flesh against the grate's face's metal tines---a mazemap pressed around his eyes. Through the gaps a lukewarm air blew, moist like raindamp, stunk like rice.