There was a beauty here, refined from country pastures, a game of solitariness, of waiting, waiting for the… — John Hoyer Updike
There was a beauty here, refined from country pastures, a game of solitariness, of waiting, waiting for the pitcher to complete his gaze toward first base and throw his lightning, a game whose very taste, of spit and dust and grass and sweat and leather and sun, was America.
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His insides are beginning to feel sickly. The pain of the world is a crater all these syrups and pills a thousandfold would fail to fill.
Freedom, that he always thought was outward motion, turns out to be this inward dwindling.
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