Then, waiting, I heard the silence pouring from them. The audience held themselves quiet, tense and tight, as if the song had burned them worse than flame. Each person held their wounded selves closely, clutching their pain as if it were a precious thing. Then there was a murmur of sobs released and sobs escaping. A sigh of tears. A whisper of bodies slowly becoming no longer still. Then the applause. A roar like leaping flame, like thunder after lightning.
— The Name of the Wind
by Patrick Rothfuss