Light in August

by William Faulkner

She began to beat her hands lightly together. “But dont you see? This may be the Lord’s way. For you to tell me. Because you know. Maybe it’s His way for you to tell me and me to tell the madam.” Her mad eyes were quite calm, her mad voice patient and calm: it was only her light unceasing hands. “You’ll wait, the same as I waited,” he said. “You have felt the weight of the Lord’s remorseful hand for maybe three days. I have lived under it for five years, watching and waiting for His own good time, because my sin is greater than your sin.” Though he was looking directly at her face he did not seem to see her at all, his eyes did not. They looked like they were blind, wide open, ice-cold, fanatical. “To what I done and what I suffered to expiate it, what you done and are woman suffering aint no more than a handful of rotten dirt. I done bore mine five years; who are you to hurry Almighty God with your little woman filth?”