At the beginning of Part 2, Steinbeck’s narrator goes on about how horrible the 19th century was, glad it is over, time to wash our hands of it and start fresh. But he repeats this lovely bit before moving on to the thirteenth chapter:
Oh, but strawberries will never taste so good again and the thighs of women have lost their clutch!
I can’t wait to use that.

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Two spots that caught my eye/ear/mind, from opposite ends of the aesthetic spectrum: first the more mundane, late in Chapter 5:
And then, a meditation on time from the opening of Chapter 7—always something that interests me: