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He felt the immediacy of the wilderness wash over him, that strong, strange sense so peculiar to America: the sense of something waiting among the trees—not inimical, but not welcoming, either.
“When a man dies, it’s only him,” he said. “And one is much like another. Aye, a family needs a man, to feed them, protect them. But any decent man can do it. A woman…” His lips moved against my fingertips, a faint smile. “A woman takes life with her when she goes. A woman is… infinite possibility.”
“How many times have ye done it, Sassenach?” he asked suddenly. “Sat betwixt the dark and the dawn, and held a man’s fear in the palms of your hands?”
The thing was, some men needed killing. The Church didn’t admit that, save it was war. The Mohawk understood it fine. So did Uncle Jamie.
All loss is one, and one loss becomes all, a single death the key to the gate that bars memory.
he knew what it was Ian had said to him. “On your right, man.” On his right. Guarding his weak side. “He’s just here,” he said to Jenny, nodding to the spot between them. “Where he belongs.”
Knowledge might be a poisoned gift—but it was still a gift, and few people would voluntarily give it back.
accept the notion of one’s own mortality, and yet live fully, was a paradox worthy of Socrates.
