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The sound made Hayt think of ancient rituals, folk memories, old words and customs, half-forgotten meanings in lost mutterings. Something vital was happening here—a bloody play of ideas across Time. Elder ideas lay tangled in the dwarf’s singing. It was like a blazing light in the distance, coming nearer and nearer, illuminating life across a span of centuries.
Eternity moves.
Death was a necessity that life might continue.
“I don’t want to be part of history,” she whispered. “I just want to be loved . . . and to love.”
You cannot threaten any individual and escape the consequences.
Do not compete with what is happening. To compete is to prepare for failure. Do not be trapped by the need to achieve anything. This way, you achieve everything.”
If you need something to worship, then worship life—all life, every last crawling bit of it! We’re all in this beauty together!
“There are problems in this universe for which there are no answers,” Paul said. “Nothing. Nothing can be done.”
He began to realize that there might be a certain fastidious courtesy in dying without a trace—no remains, nothing, and an entire planet for a tomb.
A man, a great man, was dying out there, but language plodded on . . . and on . . . and on . . . What had happened, he wondered, to all the clean meanings that screened out nonsense?
“Paul’s entire life was a struggle to escape his Jihad and its deification. At least, he’s free of it. He chose this!”
The golden stranger living forever On the edge of reason.
