The nights were blinding cold and casket black and the long reach of the morning had a terrible silence to it.

This is what the good guys do. They keep trying. They don't give up

This is my child, he said. I wash a dead man's brains out of his hair. That is my job.

See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire.

Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

Here beyond men's judgments all covenants were brittle.

Nothin wounded goes uphill, he said. It just dont happen.