Quentin was not assured by the sound of the silent field; the field filled with the passions of his youth and the unctuous dreams of his future, of which he was currently oblivious. Not the future that he believed he would have, but one that was indescribable to even the most solicitous of historical figures filling the familial structure and bristling with resplendent energy cascading through the doomed generations of the Compson family. In the midst of the silence, Quentin heard the distant sounds of an automobile engine whirring in the distance; one that wheezed and whined, then sped restively to a halt with a seriously misapplied clutch maneuver, leading to an exultant explosion. Quentin thought to himself, “sounds like a car bomb.” Ten seconds later, across the field where the golfers used to hit, where Caddy frolicked and Benjy wandered, another explosion sounded. “Yup. Definitely a Car Bomb.” Quentin retreated to the front porch and settled on the swing, drowning himself in the odour of honeysuckle.