I know it seems as if I am always rereading Henry Green's short novel Loving (1945), but really I can't help it.

Raunce's Albert, Edith, Kate, the little girls and Mrs Welch's lad chose for their picnic a place just off the beach. While those children ran screaming down to where great rollers diminished to fans of milk new from the udder upon pressed sand, Albert laid himself under a hedge all over which red fuchsia bells swung without a note in the wind the sure travelling sea brought with its low heavy swell. He could watch the light blue heave between their donkey Peter's legs and his ears were crowded with the thunder of the ocean.

That passage is so exactly like being at the sea. It's as if there is no gap between the words and the experience. When will I learn to write so well?

I wish I wish I wish. Is that the end-all of being human?