Jack had known that his intellect stood over his imagination, that the two hemispheres, as it were, of his mind were in sharp contrast. He realized that all he’d loved, he believed to be imaginary, and all he’d believed was real, he thought grim and meaningless. Near dawn, Jack went home, and morning rose over the Kilns to see him a different man. Something within him had shifted. “Even if Christianity isn’t my favorite myth,” he told Warnie, “it’s the only one that is true.”
