When I read "Leaves" sometime back in the sixties, sitting on a bench along a park in Lansing, Michigan, I was sure that nothing ever could be more perfect; I was wrong, but I still love to recall that "wow" feeling I had when I finished this short short story.
[Post-script Jan. 29: Tons of words have been written about Updike since his death. My favorite are by Verlyn Klinkenborg in today's New York Times: "You can read him for his books, but it's better to read him for his sentences, any one of which -- anywhere -- can rise up to startle you with its wry perfection."]
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