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The more he saw of it the more the world seemed to Collum to be possessed of two incompatible, irreconcilable natures, the divine and the magical.
The atrocity wasn’t the price of his love, it was the point of it.
How false and foolish life is, Collum thought. And how easily one life is changed for another.
This was it, Collum thought. The other part of life. He’d been basking in his miraculous elevation, and now here came the inevitable disappointment, the compromise of everything. It called for a different kind of bravery than being thrown down a well.
But of course it wasn’t over. Why would the future be simpler than the past? Stories never really ended, they just rolled one into the next. The past was never wholly lost, and the future was never quite found. We wander forever in a pathless forest, dropping with weariness, as home draws us back, and the grail draws us on, and we never arrive, and the quest never ends.
