The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel- Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such. The bee, his hive, Well-honeyed hum, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.
John UpdikeFiction is nothing less than the subtlest instrument for self-examination and self-display that Mankind has invented yet.
John UpdikeSuddenly summoned to witness something great and horrendous, we keep fighting not to reduce it to our own smallness.
John Updike