The room still nudges me with its many corners of strangeness, though one night’s sleep here has ironed a few rumples smooth. I know where the bathroom is. O, that immaculate, invisibly renewed sanitas of rented bathrooms, inviting us to strip off not merely our clothes and excrement and the particles of overspiced flank steak between our teeth but our skin with the dirt and our circumstances with the skin and then to flush every bit down the toilet the loud voracity of whole flushing action so rebukingly contrasts with the clogged langour of the toilets we have left behind at home, already full of us they can scarcely ebb!
A Month Of Sundays, by John Updike, p. 7
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