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“I can make you strong—” “No,” he said. “You can’t do that.”
The gunslinger was not a man to dwell on the past; only a shadowy conception of the future and of his own emotional make-up saved him from being a man without imagination, a dangerous dullard.
“The hawk does not fear you, boy, and the hawk never will. The hawk is God’s gunslinger.”
Jake looked at it curiously. “What’s that?” The gunslinger uttered a short laugh. “The story Cort used to tell us was that the Old Gods pissed over the desert and made mescaline.” Jake only looked puzzled. “This is a drug,” the gunslinger said. “But not one that puts you to sleep. One that wakes you up all the way for a little while.”
My mother used to say that the only real beauty is order and love and light.”
“Let the word and the legend go before you. There are those who will carry both.” His eyes flicked over the gunslinger’s shoulder. “Fools, perchance. Let your shadow grow hair on its face. Let it become dark.” He smiled grotesquely. “Given time, words may even enchant an enchanter. Do you take my meaning, gunslinger?” “Yes. I think I do.” “Will you take my last counsel as your teacher?”
the gunslinger took a woman and lay with her. It was quick and good. When it was over and they lay side by side without speaking, it began to hail with a brief, rattling ferocity. Downstairs and far away, someone was playing “Hey Jude” ragtime. The gunslinger’s mind turned reflectively inward. It was in that hail-splattered silence, just before sleep overtook him, that he first thought that he might also be the last.
