There were so many things a tree could do: add color, provide shade, drop fruit, or become a children’s playground, a whole sky universe to climb and hang from; an architecture of food and pleasure, that was a tree.
But most of all the trees would distill an icy air for the lungs, and a gentle rustling for the ear when you lay nights in your snowy bed and were gentled to sleep by the sound.
... nighttime was the time of change and affliction.
She kept looking ahead to see what was there, and, not being able to see it clearly enough, she looked backward toward her husband, and through his eyes, reflected then, she saw what was ahead; and since he added part of himself to this reflection, a determined firmness, her face relaxed and she accepted it and she turned back, knowing suddenly what to look for.
His eyes glowed with a dark, quiet look of loneliness.
Can one man be right, while all the world thinks they are right?
We’re kids in rompers, shouting with our play rockets and atoms, loud and alive.
I feel as if I’d been out in a pounding rain for forty-eight hours without an umbrella or a coat.
I’m soaked to the skin with emotion.
Anybody with any sense wanted to get away from Earth.
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