“The private estate was far enough away from the explosion so that its bamboos, pines, laurel, and maples were still alive, and the green place invited refugees — partly because they believed that if the Americans came back, they would bomb only buildings;  partly because the foliage seemed a center of coolness and life, and the estate’s exquisitely precise rock gardens, with their quiet pools and arching bridges, were very Japanese, normal, secure;  and also partly (according to some who were there) because of an irresistible, atavistic urge to hide under leaves.”

Why is it great? Great writers fear not the long sentence, and here is proof.  If a short sentence speaks a gospel truth, then a long one takes us on a kind of journey.  This is best undertaken when subject and verb come at the beginning, as in this example, with the subordinate elements branching to the right.  There is room here for an inventory of Japanese cultural preferences, but the real target is that final phrase, an “atavistic urge to hide under leaves,” even in the shadow of the most destructive technology ever created, the atom bomb. (Editor’s note: This is excerpted from Clark’s latest book, “The Art of X-Ray Reading:  How the Secrets of 25 Great Works of Literature Will Improve Your Writing.”)