To Say Nothing of the Dog (Oxford Time Travel, #2)

by Connie Willis

One of the first symptoms of time-lag is a tendency to maudlin sentimentality, like an Irishman in his cups or a Victorian poet cold-sober.

“Squaww-w-w-k!” the swan said and unfolded its wings to an impressive width, obviously irritated at being awakened. “Sorry,” I said, backing away. “I thought you were a cat.” “Hiss-s-s-s!” it said, and started for me at a run. Nothing in all those “O swan” poems had ever mentioned that they hissed. Or resented being mistaken for felines. Or bit.

History was indeed controlled by blind forces, as well as character and courage and treachery and love. And accident and random chance. And stray bullets and telegrams and tips. And cats.