I've been at some pains to tell you about myself because among other reasons I think we should know who our enemies are. I've known people to spend their lives nursing a hatred of phantoms and they were not happy people.
He tried to read her heart in her handclasp but he knew nothing.
She looked up at him and her face was pale and austere in the uplight and her eyes lost in their darkly shadowed hollows save only for the glint of them and he could see her throat move in the light and he saw in her face and in her figure something he'd not seen before and the name of that thing was sorrow.
Lastly he looked at the face so caved and drawn among the folds of funeral cloth$$$ the yellowed moustache$$$ the eyelids paper thin. That was not sleeping. That was not sleeping.
He lay on his back in his blankets and looked our where the quartermoon lay cocked over the heel of the mountains. In the false blue dawn the Pleiades seemed to be rising up into the darkness above the world and dragging all the stars away$$$ the great diamond of Orion and Cepella and the signature of Cassiopeia all rising up through the phosphorous dark like a sea-net. He lay a long time listening to the others breathing in their sleep while he contemplated the wildness about him$$$ the wildness within.
Finally he said that among men there was no such communion as among horses and the notion that men can be understood at all was probably an illusion.
The closest bonds we will ever know are bonds of grief. The deepest community one of sorrow.
I dont know what happens to country.
Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.
By the time I was sixteen I had read many books and I had become a freethinker.