Friday, August 1, 2014
"We and the world, my children, will always be at war. Retreat is impossible. Arm yourselves."
"Hope is like yeast, you know, rising under warmth."
"I'll lack a word, and she'll dump out a bushel of them."
"Don't you ever doubt it? Davy asked.
And in fact I have. And perhaps will again. But here is what happens. I look out the window at the red farm - for here we live, [my wife] and I, in a new house across the meadow, a house built by capable arms and open lungs and joyous sweat. Maybe I see our daughter, home from school, picking plus or apples...maybe one of our sons, reading on the grass or painting an upended canoe. Or maybe [my wife] comes into the room...with Mr Cassidy's beloved rolls on a steaming plate. Then I breathe deeply, and certainty enters into me like light, like a piece of science, and curious music seems to hum inside my fingers."
"At that moment I had no notion of identity. Nor of burden. I laughed in place of language."