And when the festival was over, that was the end of it all. And I do not think I am being fanciful when I say that this was at lea...st partly because it had already taken place--but elsewhere. After all, this story of Al*Ith has taught us all that what goes on in one Zone affects the others, even when we believe we are hostile, or forget everything that goes on outside our own borders. We share and exchange our times of sluggishness, insularity, self- applause. When those women stove and struggled to lift their poor heads up so they could see our mountain towering over them it was as if they were secretly pouring energy and effort into springs that fed us all.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
... we may leisurely Each one demand and answer to his part... Performed in this wide gap of time since First we were dissevered.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Up the reputable walks of old established trees They stalk, children of the nouveaux riches; chimes... Of the tall Clock Tower drench their heads in blessing: "I don't wanna play at your house; I don't like you any more." My house stands opposite, on the other hill,LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
... if there are no waving flags and marching songs at the barricades as Walter marches out with his little battalion, it is not b...ecause the battle lacks nobility. On the contrary, he has picked up in his way, still imperfect and wobbly in his small view of human destiny.... He becomes, in spite of those who are too intrigued with despair and hatred of man to see it, King Oedipus refusing to tear out his eyes, but attacking the oracle instead. He is that last Jewish patriot manning his rifle at Warsaw.... He is Anne Frank, still believing in people; he is the nine small heroes of Little Rock; he is Michelangelo creating David and Beethoven bursting forth with the Ninth Symphony. He is all these things because he has finally reached out in his tiny moment and caught that sweet essence which is human dignity, and it shines like the old star-touched dream that is in his eyes.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Their empty victual-wagons up the street Over the bridge dreadfully sound and sway;... Their eyes, as hanged men's, turning the wrong way; And nothing on their backs, or heads, or feet. One sees the ribs and all the skeletons Of their gaunt horses; and a sorry sight Are the torn saddles, crammed with straw and stones.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »