Sitting in the kitchen, they look at Milkman with such rheumy eyes, and spoke about his grandfather with such awe and affection, Milkman began to miss him too.

A farm that colored their eyes like a paintbrush and spoke to them like a sermon. “You see?” the farm said to them. “See? See what you can do? . . . Here, this here, is what a man can do if he puts his mind to it and his back into it.[”]

As soon as he put his foot on the first stone, he smelled money, although it was not a smell at all. It was like candy and sex and soft twinkling lights. Like piano music with a few strings in the background.