Perfect Prose

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

Joad had moved into the imperfect shade of the molting leaves before the man heard him coming, stopped his song, and turned his head.  It was a long head, bony; tight of skin, and set on a neck as stringy and muscular as a celery stalk.  His eyeballs were heavy and protruding; the lids stretched to cover them, and the lids were raw and red.  His cheeks were brown and shiny and hairless and his mouth full-- humorous and sensual.  The nose, beaked and hard, stretched the skin so tightly that the bridge showed white. There was no perspiration on the face, not even on the tall pale forehead.  It was an abnormally high forehead, lined with delicate blue veins at the temple.  Fully half of the face was above the eyes.  His stiff gray hair was mussed back from his brow as though he had combed it back with his fingers.  For clothes he wore overalls and a blue shirt.  A denim coat with brass buttons and a spotted brown hat creased like a pork pie lay on the ground beside him.  Canvas sneakers, gray with dust, lay near by where they had fallen when they were kicked off.   - pg15