The Barbarians Come Out At Night.

My Existence From Day To Day Has Become A Matter Of Averting My Eyes, Of Cringing. Death Is The Only Truth Left. Death Is What I Cannot Bear To Think. At Every Moment When I Am Thinking Of Something Else, I Am Not Thinking Death, Am Not Thinking The Truth.

He Knows Too Much About Himself To Subject Her To A Morning After, When He Will Be Cold, Surly, Impatient To Be Alone.

Speaking The Words He Had Been Taught, Directing Them No Longer Upward But To The Earth On Which He Knelt, He Prayed: 'for What We Are About To Receive Make Us Truly Thankful.' ... He... Felt His Heart Suddenly Flow Over With Thankfulness... Like A Gush Of Warm Water... All That Remains Is To Live Here Quietly For The Rest Of My Life, Eating Food That My Own Labour Has Made The Earth To Yield. All That Remains Is To Be A Tender Of The Soil.

You Think You Know What Is Just And What Is Not. I Understand. We All Think We Know." I Had No Doubt, Myself, Then, That At Each Moment Each One Of Us, Man, Woman, Child, Perhaps Even The Poor Old Horse Turning The Mill-wheel, Knew What Was Just: All Creatures Come Into The World Bringing With Them The Memory Of Justice. "but We Live In A World Of Laws," I Said To My Poor Prisoner, "a World Of The Second-best. There Is Nothing We Can Do About That. We Are Fallen Creatures. All We Can Do Is To Uphold The Laws, All Of Us, Without Allowing The Memory Of Justice To Fade.

Was It Serious? I Don't Know. It Certainly Had Serious Consequences.