The Horse And His Boy

One language is not enough, of course. There must be more. There must be Greek and German and Danish and Afrikaans. These languages, also, are not enough. Turkish, Belgian, Spanish (even the stuff they speak in Belize). Throw Esperanto, Popido, Klingon into the mix. Gather up the dead languages, also, the black-letter Gothic, and Etruscan, and Hittite, and Miqmaq. There are not enough words, I think, in the world's languages to describe the many many different shades of disgust and bitterness and loathing with which all hearts ought to be entirely-with-burning-fire-consumed upon learning that each one is, in fact, part of the human race. I saw a picture, yesterday. It was printed in the National Post. Three Nepalese policemen had a man trapped against a wall, and they were beating him with very large rods, one policeman's leg raised to kick the victim in the crotch. At least eight photographers stood in a semi-circle around this violence, cameras raised high, not ten feet back. None were looking to help. Why should the picture I saw have ever been taken? Why didn't eight photographers lay down their damn cameras and actually for Godsake help a poor man in great misery? So that we might see that the Nepalese needed help? This particular man needed help so much, right then. His mouth was open in pain and protest. If any of us saw a cat crying, we would stop to help, I think. How much less did eight men do for a man than they would do for a limping cat? And if these eight men ever see my words, or hear similar words, and try to justify themselves and their loathsome behaviour, then they are the kind of men who wouldn't even help an innocent animal in pain. And they are monsters. And I have seen this picture and there is nothing I can do about what is happening. And I feel I am a monster, too.

"Violence In The Snowy Field" + Dolorean When the rider comes along, GODSAKE! I don't want to turn, I don't want to be afraid of how I spend my days. Before those hoofbeats come heavy down the road, and, yes, into the boulevard, and then up the stairs, then the hallway, the carpet, my bedroom door, no, no—my only hope lies with you, that you will plainly see all my failures and faults and acts of violence. The rider will come. He will bring a sword. No doubt, he will cut off my head. What I need from you is someone to say, "He didn't hide, he didn't lie, he was honest and repented, he has paid enough already". Will you do this?

Four thin people sing this song softly behind the rider. Their bodies are not bone or blood. They go wherever he goes.

Book post Saturday. I know. Late again. He turned away, the lie like ashes in his mouth. Stop carrying around those ashes, man! Or use your pocket, at least, Godsake.