Self was feeling quite satisfied, quite righteous, for having spent most of today gardening, watering, and even cleaning out kitchen cabinets. Her reward is settling down on the couch and continuing to read John Burnham Schwarz’s novel, The Commoner. She had no idea what to expect, but Schwarz surprises her at every turn.
In winter, little girls in the country wore padded kimonos the color of trampled persimmon, the puffed fabric making them look like flocks of curious, full-breasted cardinals.
Not only is he quite a writer, he makes it all seem so effortless.
John Burnham Schwartz, self both admires and envies (and maybe even hates) you for your talent.