The pale pinks, the deep rosy tones, the scarlet, which I passed on-
buying red roses for oneself is...well I don't like them anyway..
Pink is important in the second or third week of April, when the
cherry tree out front blooms, sighs, and sheds its rosey robe like
a burlesque queen. I walk under the heavy boughs and marvel at
the tissue paper sensuality in that particular shade of blush.
And speaking of blushing. Very important in many arenas: when one
blurts out an indescretion, admits a mistake, or realizes, upon a glance, or
an almost imperceptible brush of pink-laden limbs, that one has fallen in love.
And then there's the "four-cheek blush." As seen on babies, and "polar bear" swimmers.
And besides all that, pink makes me feel 'sportif.' Thank you, pink.
Something to Consider:
"Here is the crux of the problem, the single greatest obstacle to American literature today: guilt. Guilt leads to the idea that all writing is self-indulgence. Writers, feeling guilty for not doing real work, that mysterious activity, turn in shame to the notion of writing as "craft." "Craft" solicits from them constipated "vignettes" – as if to say: "Well, yes, it's bad, but at least there isn't too much of it." ~Elif Batuman
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