To give you some idea of the power of description, we present the
following short sample of a good descriptive writer at her finest:
On the way to Dijon we had lunch in the courtyard of the
old post hotel in Avallon. We were motoring down with two large soft Chicago women who
were heading for Italy, mainly, it seemed, because they "simply couldn't sit five
minutes in a restaurant in Rome" without being subtly assaulted by lovesick Army
officers. "Italians appreciate mature women," they said, their chaste bosoms
heaving with a kind of innocent yearning lechery I have often noticed in American females
of their class.
I remember that once on the road, when the chauffeur got
out to look at a wheel, his coat flapped open as he bent over. Both of our companions
squeaked at what they saw, and hustled out of the car. They asked a question in dreadful
Italian, and whipped back the lapels of their own traveling suits. And then the fat
shifty-looking driver and the two elegant middle-aged women stood in the dust, their eyes
fixed on one another's magic enameled Fascist Party pins, so carefully hidden until now,
and the three of them solemnly saluted, chins out, just like Mussolini in the newsreels.
Al and I were oddly embarrassed, and did not look at each other.