Sublime

Gracious alive, Cal, what’s all this?” He was staring at his breakfast plate. Calpurnia said, “Tom Robinson’s daddy sent you along this chicken this morning. I fixed it.” “You tell him I’m proud to get it—bet they don’t have chicken for breakfast at the White House. What are these?” “Rolls,” said Calpurnia. “Estelle down at the hotel sent ’em.”

It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains.

Poor John Field!—I trust he does not read this, unless he will improve by it—thinking to live by some derivative old-country mode in this primitive new country—to catch perch with shiners. It is good bait sometimes, I allow. With his horizon all his own, yet he a poor man, born to be poor, with his inherited Irish poverty or poor life, his Adam’s

At Exeter, he would read Sweet Thursday and Cannery Row, John Steinbeck’s lightly fictionalized accounts of marine biologist Ed Ricketts.

stevedores

Then she thought about an American author who had written that loneliness is like starvation, you don’t realize how hungry you are until you begin to eat.