Moar stuff that I think is pretty

From an article about James Agee.

" "One by one, million by million, in the prescience of dawn, every leaf of that part of the world was moved." Why don't our novelists write in Agee's tender high style these days? Either something has gone out of the world, or something has gone out of them. His book reads like a prayer, and attempt to breathe life into the dead through mighty exertions of language. Everything is consecrated. Trees move in their sleep, stars tremble like lanterns, and a butterfly- yes, a butterfly- alights on a coffin.

Now that's writing.