I have no joy of this contract to-night:It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;Too like the lightning, which doth cease to beHow art thou out of breath, when thou hast breathTo say to me that thou art out of breath?
"His mind was crowded with memories; memories of the knowledge that had come to them when they closed in on the struggling pig, knowledge that they had outwitted a living thing, imposed their will upon it, taken away its life like a long satisfying drink."
C.writing immortal poetry
