I stopped watching for ridicule, the scorpion’s tail hidden in his words. He said what he meant; he was puzzled if you did not. Some people might have mistaken this for simplicity. But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?
. . .
How could any ordinary man take pride in his own skill when there was this in the world?
. . .
For who can be ashamed to lose to such beauty? It was enough to watch him win, to see the soles of his feet flashing as they kicked up sand, or the rise and fall of his shoulders as he pulled through the salt. It was enough.
. . .
We were only twelve, too young to brood.
. . .
Pride became us—heroes were never modest.
. . .
“Will you tell me who hurt you?” I imagine saying, You. But that is nothing more than childishness.
. . .
The sudden, incontrovertible proof of his worth. But when will it be enough? When will he intervene?
. . .
In grief, men must help each other, though they are enemies.
