When I grow up, I want to write like this:
A car beam — like something sprayed out of a hose — lights up the room he is in, and he pauses once again in mid-step, seeing that same woman’s eyes on him, a man moving on top of her, his fingers in her blonde hair. And she has seen, he knows, even though now he is naked, the same man she photographed earlier in the crowded party, for by accident he stands the same way now, half turned in surprise at the light that reveals his body in the darkness. The car lights sweep up into a corner of the room and disappear.
Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient, pg. 36. What is revealed, not by the headlights but by the prose, stands starkly against the tone. The still shot; the ironic, beguiling syntax; Faulkner without the fireworks.