He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.

He thought that in the beauty of the world were hid a secret. He thought that the world’s heart beat at some terrible cost and that the world’s pain and its beauty moved in a relationship of diverging equity and that in this headlong deficit the blood of multitudes might ultimately be exacted for the vision of a single flower.

Goodness will find the little boy. It always has. It will again.

Words pale and lose their savor while pain is always new.

The voice of the Almighty speaks most profoundly in such things as lives in silence themselves.

Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes. Of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us they no longer have even a name. The story on the other hand can never be lost from its place in the world for it is that place.

Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not.