“The sun beat down upon them, for it was early summer, and her face was soon dripping with her sweat.  Wang Lung had his coat off and his back bare, but she worked with her thin garment covering her shoulders and it grew wet and clung to her like skin.  Moving together in a perfect rhythm, without a word, hour after hour, he fell into a union with her which took the pain from his labor.  He had no articulate thought of anything; there was only this perfect sympathy of movement, of turning this earth of theirs over and over to the sun, this earth which formed their home and fed their bodies.  The earth lay rich and dark, and fell apart lightly under the points of their hoes.  Sometimes they turned up a bit of brick, a splinter of wood.  It was nothing.  Some time, in some age, bodies of men and women had been buried there, houses had stood there, had fallen, and gone back into the earth.  So would also their house, some time, return into the earth, their bodies also.  Each had his turn at this earth.  They worked on, moving together-together-producing the fruit of this earth-speechless in their movement together.”

~Pearl S. Buck, The Good Earth


Happy thirtieth Babe.  I love you.







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