a very long sentence, from Nelio Biederman’s debut novel Lázár, translated by Jamie Bulloch:

She had dreamed of them, and indeed the storks had returned, craning their white necks from the corn-poppy fields that surrounded the village, while she stood at the window, taking in the milky-blue morning sky, the blossom-yellow horizon, the soft hills in the distance, the simple church tower, and the rich red of the fields, as if everything were already a memory, as if seeing and remembering were one and the same; then she closed the window and went into the bathroom, where she washed her face, cleaned her teeth, and sat on the lavatory, sitting tight for a while, but she could only urinate, which left her with the unsatisfying feeling of having left something unfinished, but the white necks of the storks rose up from the red fields, which was why she left the bathroom without cutting her arms, went into the bedroom, spent a long time wondering what to put on, torn between the green dress and the blue one, eventually remaining in her nightdress, for now that she had begun to not finish things, she could continue in the same vein, and so she sat as she was at her dressing table, painted her lips corn-poppy red, put the pearl earrings that had once belonged to Sándor’s mother through her piercings, loosened her braided hair, which glided like dark water over the white material of her nightdress and her narrow shoulders, stood up and fetched the dark-blue cardigan from the wardrobe, put it on, went out of the bedroom without glancing back or shutting the door, down the stairs to the first floor where the children were asleep, still asleep, for soon the good Ida would wake them and push the curtains aside to allow in the day, whose early hours would wipe from their faces the childishness they still inhabited while asleep, but now they were still lying peacefully and quietly, lying there as if dead, but the darkness smelling of milk and sleep was full of dreams that spanned the room like spiders’ webs, which she brushed from her shoulders as she went down to the ground floor and left the house, stepping out into the blazing morning, kicking off her shoes, and walking barefoot across the grass, damp with dew, behind the building to collect the large stones that had fallen out of the wall and lay on the ground, and put them in the pockets of her cardigan, before wandering down to the pond, its smooth surface reflecting the green crowns of the trees and the sky, crossed only occasionally by a bird or broken by a fish leaping out of the water, until she took one step in, then another, until she felt her feet sinking into the muddy bottom and the weight of the stones in her cardigan pockets; until the water enveloped her as if she were returning.