William Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury is more exhausting than a 7-hour hike in the rain and wind of the Scottish Highlands, even with his moments of clarity, akin to coming out of the clouds at the highest ridge:

As I descended the light dwindled slowly, yet at the same time without altering its quality, as if I and not the light were changing, decreasing…He grasped at the hatchet, feeling no shock but knowing that he was falling, thinking So this is how it’ll end, and he believed that he was about to die and when something crashed against the back of his head he thought, How did he hit me there? Only maybe he hit me a long time ago, he thought. And I just now felt it, and he thought, Hurry. Hurry. Get it over with, and then a furious desire not to die seized him and he struggled, hearing the old man wailing and cursing in his cracked voice.