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I don’t mean love, when I say patriotism. I mean fear. The fear of the other. And its expressions are political, not poetical: hate, rivalry, aggression. It grows in us, that fear. It grows in us year by year. We’ve followed our road too far.
a musty chill on the air as if the drafts blew in not from other rooms but from other centuries.
The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next.”
I must say “he,” for the same reasons as we used the masculine pronoun in referring to a transcendent god: it is less defined, less specific, than the neuter or the feminine. But the very use of the pronoun in my thoughts leads me continually to forget that the Karhider I am with is not a man, but a manwoman.
The king was pregnant.
Chortle
The man was like an electric shock—nothing to hold on to and you don’t know what hit you.
served breakfast: grain-porridge and beer.
It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.
