tom robbins

in the center of a marble-top desk, directly under a crystal chandelier, sitting alone on a silver tray, was a large, raw beet. the beet must have been out of the groun a week or more, for it had the ashen exterior of a cancer victim. yet, when struck at a particular angle by a flicker of candlelight from the chandelier, its heart of wine-drenched velvet shone through.