stoutfellow

I am currently reading Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson, and (so far) it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever read. I will review it when I'm done, but for now, I just want to toss out this one passage:

This morning a splendid dawn passed over our house on its way to Kansas. Kansas rolled out of its sleep into a sunlight grandly announced, proclaimed throughout heaven - one more of the very finite number of days that this old prairie has been called Kansas, or Iowa. But it has all been one day, that first day. Light is constant, we just turn over in it. So every day is in fact the selfsame evening and morning. My grandfather's grave turned into the light, and the dew on his weedy little mortality patch was glorious.

Light is constant, we just turn over in it.

Glorious is the word.