He looked at a world of incredible loveliness. Old distaff Celt's blood in some back chamber of his brain moved him to discourse with the birches, with the oaks. A cool green fire kept breaking in the woods and he could hear the footsteps of the dead. Everything had fallen from him. He scarce could tell where his being ended or the world began nor did he care. He lay on his back in the gravel, the earth's core sucking his bones, a moment's giddy vertigo with this illusion of falling outward through blue and windy space, over the offside of the planet, hurtling through the high thin cirrus.
Cormac McCarthyAbout author
- Author's profession: Writer
- Nationality: american
- Born: July 20, 1933
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Ever since he had discovered the rationality of the hrossa he had been haunted by a conscientious scruple as to whether it might not be his duty to undertake their religious instruction; now as a result of his tentative efforts, he found himself being treated as if he were the savage and being given a first sketch of civilized religion-a sort of hrossian equivalent of the shorter catechism.
C. S. Lewis
