Wait for that mound-eating stride of his: he’s a January commuter arching over six feet of slush. No, no—look at the tilt, the twist and torque, the flying arms, the balance lost and regained, the skinny bod, the high-school hair: he’s an X Games skateboarder headed for the Olympics. Nobody has ever pitched like this before.
. . . his real home, the one he never named anymore, was the dark and sooty chamber in his heart that contained his sister and brother and, because it was an accomodating kind of space, the entire filthy history of the industrial revolution. It was amazing how much dark matter you could crush inside the black hole of the heart."
from "When Will There Be Good News?" by Kate Atkinson
Lewis Hyde, commenting on the lesson of Bob Dylan's statement that listening obsessively to Woody Guthrie records when a teenager made him feel like himself for the first time (or words to that effect).
Updike is vaunted as a realist par excellence, a careful chronicler of our suburban mores, but what I found in these pages seemed pretty fantastical to me. Certainly it bore no resemblance to the suburbia I knew. His characters talked about Bertrand Russell, bristled at undercooked lamb, and screwed each other senseless at every possible interval. It called my own world into question.