Suppose you were the last one left? Suppose you did that to yourself?
Anything that doesn't take years of your life and drive you to suicide hardly seems worth doing.
Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.
The passing of armies and the passing of sands in the desert are one.
What he loved in horses was what he loved in men, the blood and the heat of the blood that ran them. All his reverence and all his fondness and all the leanings of his life were for the ardenhearted and they would always be so and never be otherwise. (All the Pretty Horses)
In the spring or warmer weather when the snow thaws in the woods the tracks of winter reappear on slender pedestals and the snow reveals in palimpsest old buried wanderings, struggles, scenes of death. Tales of winter brought to light again like time turned back upon itself.