She had come into her beauty. This was not the beauty of her youth and freshness, of which she had had a plenty. The beauty that I am speaking of now was that of a woman who has come into knowledge and into strength and who, knowing her hardships, trusts her strength and goes about her work even with a kind of happiness, serene somehow, and secure. It was the beauty she would always have. Her eyes had not changed. They still seemed to exert a power, as if whatever she looked at (including, I thought, me) was brightened.
I have a crush on Jayber Crow, and, I presume, on Wendell Berry for writing him into being. I’m only halfway through this book, and I’m mad at my eyes for being too weak to read all through the night.