I don’t know how many are fans of Henry Green, but I thought I would share a fragment of one of his lesser-known short stories, “Saturday”. Green was “experimenting with the definite article”.
Life was in her. Life was in her and beat there. Her bed was next theirs. Their beds took up the room. Her father and mother slept now in that bed. No blind was over window. Sun came by it. And she turned head over from sun toward them sleeping and did not see them. She smiled. Head on bolster was in sunshine.
Life was in her belly. Life beat there.
Morning. Thousands slept. Town was over miles round. Thousands of houses. In each they slept.
Under blanket hands were pressed to her belly. Her fingers stuck out round. With them she felt beating there. She smiled. Sun came in over her. She was just out of sleep, just in sleep. All of her was under sunshine, in that life beating under her fingers stuck out round.
Thousands slept. Were thousands of houses. In each they slept.