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| John Updike |
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| Suburban Madrigal | ||||
| Sitting here in my house, looking through my windows diagonally at my neighbour´s house, I see his sun-porch windows; they are filled with blue-green, the blue-green of my car, which is parked in front of my house, more or less up the street, where I can´t directly see it. How promiscuous is the world of appearances! How frail are the property laws! To him his window is filled with his things: his lamp, his plants, his radio. How annoyed he would be to know that my car, legally parked, yet violates his windows, paints them full (to me) of myself, my car, my well-insured ´55 Fordor Ford a gorgeous green sunset streaking his panes. |
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