Aql-idrokdan mahrum bo`lgan bosh suvsiz chashmaga, adabsiz, tarbiyasiz yigit esa egar-jabduqsiz otga, sharm-hayosiz juvon tuzsiz taomga, ilmiga amal qilmagan olim xushbo`y guli yo`q bo`stonga o`xshaydi.                                             

It was spring again. Tommy Falcone knew that before he even opened his eyes. He could smell it on the air: a scent dense with lilacs and some other unidentified heavy, sweet flowers, an aroma that somehow managed even to gently, subtly overpower the sick, septic smell of the hospital all around him.