Drunk on success, Author Dan Brown rewrites Absalom Absalom!

It begins:

Aging woman Rosa Coldfield was sitting in a room as hot as a Hotpoint oven that had been left on for a very long time even though nothing was cooking yet that anyone could sense or smell. She could almost taste the Southern aspects of the air that was full of air things like hot molecules and the paint chip things that fall off the walls in old houses as they sit like two eyes cut with dull southern scissors from an old magazine about sharks or other fish that have eyes or travel. “Fahrenheit was a Pollock,” Rosa uttered audibly, to no one in particular, although Quentin was also sitting in the hot room with two eyes. “Poland is not hot,” Rosa colluded, exhaling the air that had been in her lungs for a few seconds before she talked chillingly about the temperature man. “This is a hot room,” she finished, forecasting a way of saying to Quentin that the heat of the enormous room was like an angry animal that moved like a more slow animal and with eyes like scissors or not. Quentin silently acknowledged her fiery observations with keen intelligence and iced tea in a small man-like hand which was still attached cunningly to one arm. So was the other one, white with wise countenance of being in this precarious room with the woman I mentioned earlier. It was still really hot, certainly.