Rúben:
Lying on his back, he saw them, a fascist patrol of three Fiats, tiny, bright, fast-moving across the mountain sky, headed in the direction from which Anselmo and he had come yesterday
Rúben:
The old waitress is a dear, dressed in faded pink, she can hardly walk, she’s sans everything
Rúben:
Ef we hadn’ dive’ so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn’ ben so dark, en we warn’t so sk’yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin’ is, we’d a seed de raf’
Rúben:
Morning and evening he drove about in his spring wagon, distributing freshly ironed clothes, and collecting bags of linen that cried out for his suds and sunny drying-lines
Rúben:
Gonna get me a whole big bunch of grapes off a bush, or whatever, an’ I’m gonna squash ’em on my face an’ let ’em run offen my chin
Rúben:
And in their midst a simple harmonic duo, two human souls, steadily asserting their own pensiveness, joyousness
Rúben:
These black silhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister quality to the violent state of his soul
