He knew that those things we most desire to hold in our hearts are often taken from us while that which we would put away seems often by that very wish to become endowed with unsuspected powers of endurance. He knew how frail is the memory of loved ones. How we close our eyes and speak to them. How we long to hear their voices once again, and how those voices and those memories grow faint and faint until what was flesh and blood is no more than echo and shadow. In the end perhaps not even that.
Ah Priest, said the judge. What could I ask of you that you’ve not already given?
The good book says that he that lives by the sword shall perish by the sword, said.
Nothing moved in that purgatorial waste save carnivorous birds. By.
Men are born for games. Nothing else. Every child knows that play is nobler than work. He.
Qualunque cosa esista, disse. Qualunque cosa esista nella creazione senza che io la conosca esiste senza il mio consenso.
Before the colt could struggle up John Grady had squatted on its neck and pulled its head up and to one side and was holding the horse by the muzzle with the long bony head pressed against his chest and the hot sweet breath of it flooding up from the dark wells of its nostrils over his face and neck like news from another world.
Death is what the living carry with them.
In the end we all come to be cured of our sentiments. Those whom life does not cure death will.
The Mennonite watches the enshadowed dark before them as it is reflected to him in the mirror over the bar. He turns to them. His eyes are wet, he speaks slowly. The wrath of God lies sleeping. It was hid a million years before men were and only men have power to wake it. Hell aint half full. Hear me. Ye carry war of a madman’s making onto a foreign land. Yell wake more than the dogs.
Pues la existencia tiene su propio orden y eso no puede comprenderlo ninguna inteligencia humana, siendo que la propia inteligencia no es sino un hecho entre otros.
Because he knows what perhaps you do not. That the past cannot be mended.
He slept little and he slept poorly.
They aint got no medication for pilgrims waitin to take the Sunset?
He watches, pale and unwashed. He can neither read nor write and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence.
Perhaps they had come to warn him. But of what? That he couldn’t enkindle in the boy’s heart what was ashes in his own?
He rode all night and in the first gray light with the horse badly drawn down he walked it out upon a rise beneath which he could make out the shape of the town, the yellow windows in the old mud walls where the first lamps were lit, the narrow spires of smoke standing vertically into the windless dawn so still the village seemed to hang by threads from the darkness.
The drought didnt know when the last one was and nobody knew when the next one was coming.
He said that the world could only be known as it existed in men’s hearts. For while it seemed a place which contained men it was in reality a place contained within them and therefore to know it one must look there and come to know those hearts and to do this one must live with men and not simply pass among them.
I have to watch you all the time, the boy said. I know. If you break little promises you’ll break big ones.