Saturday, April 14, 2007

All things of grace and beauty.

No lists of things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes. So, he whispered to the sleeping boy. I have you.

--[The Road, Cormac McCarthy, p. 54]

I don't know what this means to me right now, I just know it does.

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