In the circle of the binoculars, behind the smashed windshield, the seat seemed empty, but the branches hanging down over the road kept Grange from seeing it distinctly. One of the front tires had been torn open. In any case, the first glance settled all questions: the truck was dead, dead the way a man can be dead, already a prey to the weeds, subject to a livid discoloration that must have been the dust of the shattered windshield; it looked like a fly wrapped up in a spiderweb.

Julien Gracq, Balcony in the Forest, loc. 465