Somewhere Beyond The Sea Quotes

It’s hard.” “What is?” “Being alive.” “It is,” Arthur agreed. “But perhaps that’s the point: the trials and tribulations of life weigh heavily upon us, but we find people to help lighten the load.

If you go into a situation expecting the worst, it may cloud your ability to see what good can come from it.

I’m an adult who does adult things, like taxes and laundry and being sad for no reason.

But I believe the greatest weapon we have at our disposal is our voices. And I am going to use my voice for you, and for me. Hate is loud. We are louder.

Confidence is silent. Insecurities are loud.

There is magic in the ordinary, magic that has the power to change the world.

Even the smallest of things can change the world, if only one is brave enough to try.

Linus told me something once, and I think about it a lot. He said it’s okay to not be okay, so long as it doesn’t become all we know.

What is this evil place, you might be asking? Great question!” He spread his hands wide in a practiced display of showmanship. “It’s called … Florida.

She has seen maps of course, but ink and paper hold nothing to this. To the salt smell, the murmur of waves, the hypnotic draw of the tide. To the scope and scale of the sea, and the knowledge that somewhere, beyond the horizon, there is more.

Let them listen to what joy sounds like. Maybe they’ll learn a thing or two.

See me. See me for who I am. I am magic. I am human. I am inhuman. See me. I am a boy. I am a girl. I am everything and nothing in between. See me. You do. You see me. You recoil in fear. You scream in anger. See me. I bleed. I ache. You see me, and you wish you hadn’t. You wish I was invisible. Out of sight, out of mind. Unseen, faded, muted. You want my color. You want my joy. You want a monochrome world with monochrome beliefs. You see me, and you want to take it all away. But you can’t. You want me lost, but I am found in the breaths I take, in the spaces between heartbeats. I am found because I refuse to be in black and white, or any shade of gray. I am color. I am fire. I am the sun, and I will burn away the shadows until only light remains. And then you will have no choice but to see

Somewhere beyond the battening, urged sweep of three-bedroom houses rushing by their thousands across all the dark beige hills, somehow implicit in an arrogance or bite to the smog the more inland somnolence of San Narciso did lack, lurked the sea, the unimaginable Pacific, the one to which all surfers, beach pads, sewage disposal schemes, tourist incursions, sunned homosexuality, chartered fishing are irrelevant, the hole left by the moon’s tearing-free and monument to her exile; you could not hear or even smell this but it was there, something tidal began to reach feelers in past eyes and eardrums, perhaps to arouse fractions of brain current your most gossamer microelectrode is yet too gross for finding.

Lucy tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s hard.” “What is?” “Being alive.” “It is,” Arthur agreed. “But perhaps that’s the point: the trials and tribulations of life weigh heavily upon us, but we find people to help lighten the load.

When I lived in the city, I dreamed in color, of places where the sea stretched on for miles and miles. [...] But what I didn’t expect was that the color didn’t come from the ocean, or the trees, or even the island itself. It came from all of you.

They surround themselves with like-minded people, and it creates an echo chamber that’s nigh on impossible to escape. A feedback loop that never ends.

He’s not going to fight Jesus,” Talia said. “Last night, Lucy stubbed his toe and cried until Zoe kissed it, so all Jesus has to do is wait for that, and the fight is over.

But perhaps that’s the point: the trials and tribulations of life weigh heavily upon us, but we find people to help lighten the load.

This was hope; the children, love letters to a future that had yet to be decided. Yes,..hope was this thing with feathers, but is was also in the hearts and minds of those who believed all was not lost, no matter the odds.

Somewhere or other there must surely be The face not seen, the voice not heard, The heart that not yet - never yet — ah me! Made answer to my word. Somewhere or other, may be near or far; Past land and sea, clean out of sight; Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star That tracks her night by night. Somewhere or other, may be far or near; With just a wall, a hedge, between; With just the last leaves of the dying year Fallen on a turf grown green.

On three,” Sal said. “One. Two. Three!” “We’re not going to die!” the children all shouted, raising their hands into the sky.

A great man once said stories of imagination upset those without one.

You are sunlight chasing away the clouds on a rainy day. You are the brightest flower in a garden where color fights to exist.

Magic, comes from within. It's not just about our gifts. It's about intent. What we want from it, what we plan to do with it in the future.

He cackled evilly, but seeing as how he was only seven, “evil” was, perhaps, a bit of a misnomer. It was more of a squeaky giggle, followed by the stomping of feet.

We’ve figured it out,” Sal said as the other children nodded around him. “A way to get us all back that won’t be boring.

We have to trust them. And then we have to do the scariest thing of all: step back and hope for the best.

So what do we do?” “We live,” Arthur said. “And if they try and take our children from us?” “Then we fight.

I believe the greatest weapon we have at our disposal is our voices. And I am going to use my voice for you, and for me. Hate is loud. We are louder.

See me. See me for who I am. I am magic. I am human. I am inhuman. See me. I am a boy. I am a girl. I am everything and nothing in between. See me. You do. You see me. You recoil in fear. You scream in anger. See me. I bleed. I ache. You see me, and you wish you hadn’t. You wish I was invisible. Out of sight, out of mind. Unseen, faded, muted. You want my color. You want my joy. You want a monochrome world with monochrome beliefs. You see me, and you want to take it all away. But you can’t. You want me lost, but I am found in the breaths I take, in the spaces between heartbeats. I am found because I refuse to be in black and white, or any shade of gray. I am color. I am fire. I am the sun, and I will burn away the shadows until only light remains. And then you will have no choice but to see me.

Linus crawled over the side of the rowboat, lying on his back in the sand, pulling piles of sand over to him and hugging them. “Oh, ground. My sweet, sweet ground. I’ll never take you for granted again.

They’re certainly not kidnapping me,” David told the conductor. “Because I’m an adult who does adult things, like taxes and laundry and being sad for no reason.” Unfazed, the conductor said, “How wonderful! I, too, am filled with an encroaching dread over my own mortality.

You want me lost, but I am found in the breaths I take, in the spaces between heartbeats. I am found because I refuse to be in black and white, or any shade of gray. I am color. I am fire. I am the sun, and I will burn away the shadows until only light remains. And then you will have no choice but to see me.

Egypt is a fertile valley of rich river soil, low-lying, warm, monotonous, a slow-flowing river, and beyond the limitless desert. Greece is a country of sparse fertility and keen, cold winters, all hills and mountains sharp cut in stone, where strong men must work hard to get their bread. And while Egypt submitted and suffered and turned her face toward death, Greece resisted and rejoiced and turned full-face to life. For somewhere among those steep stone mountains, in little sheltered valleys where the great hills were ramparts to defend, and men could have security for peace and happy living, something quite new came into the world: the joy of life found expression. Perhaps it was born there, among the shepherds pasturing their flocks where the wild flowers made a glory on the hillside; among the sailors on a sapphire sea washing enchanted islands purple in a luminous air.

There, now that that’s out of the way, on to something just as important. Presents.” “Talia,” Arthur said. “Would you like to try that again?” She sighed. “Hi.” “Hello.” “How are you?” “Better now.” “Me too,” she said. “Now, about those presents.

They’re not very subtle, are they?” “And so focused on a new guest that we don’t even merit a hug? Your children need to learn their manners.” “Oh, they’re my children when you don’t get a hug, but as soon one of them threatens disembowelment, you’re pleased as punch.

I’m sure this is a problem faced by most parents since time immemorial. To know when the time if right to let the little birds leave the nest and fly on their own.” “Most parents don’t have the children we do,” Linus said. “No, they don’t. We’re lucky that way, I guess.

Everything has to start somewhere. And as long as we nurture them, they can grow beyond anything we thought possible.

We’re in this together.” “Yeah,” Chauncey said. “Let’s all get grounded. Who’s with me? Why is no one raising their tentacles?

Yes.” “Yes?” Arthur said, “Yes. Yes to you. Yes to us. Yes to all of it.

People who could do things that defied imagination and those who believed there was magic in the ordinary.

Frank says that people who eat seafood are going to Hell.” “Great,” Linus said. “Now that I know fish are aware of the concept of Hell, I’m questioning everything.

He said it’s okay to not be okay, so long as it doesn’t become all we know.

This must be what it feels like to be God. Fun fact! Some people go to church and ritually eat Jesus and drink his blood. Isn’t that interesting?

When we live in fear, it controls us. Every decision we make is smothered by it. I refuse to live like that any longer.

The best we can do is to be there to help them celebrate their victories and to pick them back up when they get knocked down.

Ah, lost your voice, have you? I do hope you find it. I happen to like it when you talk.

We’re so weird,” Phee said as the rowboat hit a wave, sending a mist of seawater into their faces. Linus sighed. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Once again, the mind of a child knocked Arthur flat. How could anyone think they were capable of harm?

I wasn’t going to eat her,” David said. “I was just trying to… make her go… near my… mouth.” “I knew he’d be a perfect fit,” Helen whispered to Zoe.

if there's one thing I've learned above all else from you, it's this: there is magic in the ordinary, magic that has the power to change the world

I’ll never understand humans,” David said after the conductor had moved on. [...] “I doubt anyone can,” Linus said.

You do it because maybe someone will see and do the same for another, and then that person will help someone else.” She lit up, slyly glancing at Arthur. “Like your ripples in a pond.

I worry all the time about the children. I worry about them when they sleep. When they wake up. When they run, when they eat, when they laugh or cry or sneeze. When they ask questions or when they answer questions. What does that make me?” Linus snorted. “That makes you a father.

Lucy nodded. “And I’ll open up a dimensional doorway in the fabric of reality and send her to a place where even demons fear to tread. What is this evil place, you might be asking? Great question!” He spread his hands wide in a practiced display of showmanship. “It’s called … Florida.

For a time, Lucy was silent. He looked out the window, his face bathed in golden light. Finally, he said, “Arthur?” “Yes?” “I love you too.” Arthur smiled as fire bloomed in his chest. “I know.

All I can do is tell you that things will be different this time around. I will give the children what I never had: a place to be whoever they want to be, no matter what they can do or where they come from.

Which was how they found themselves all bent over the side of the boat, shouting ”Frank!” at the water. Arthur had never yelled at the ocean before and found it to be more soothing than he expected it to be.

I believed- and still do- that places, just like people, can hold power over you if you let them. Unearned power that gives them the right to decide how others should be treated simply because of who they are.

Sea Longing" A thousand miles beyond this sun-steeped wall Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand, The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land With the old murmur, long and musical; The windy waves mount up and curve and fall, And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,-- Tho' I am inland far, I hear and know, For I was born the sea's eternal thrall. I would that I were there and over me The cold insistence of the tide would roll, Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,-- Then with the ebbing I should drift and be Less than the smallest shell along the shoal, Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea.

No. I wouldn’t. Even with all I’ve been through, with all I’ve seen, I wouldn’t want to be anything other than what I am. If I had to do it all over again just to arrive at this very moment, I would. Over and over again.

We’re building something, David,” Arthur said. “The more people--magical and not--who hear that this town will welcome them with open arms, the better off we’ll all be.” I dream of such a place, he thought as they drove toward the sea.

Going on vacation?” the conductor asked. “Something like that,” Linus said. “They’re certainly not kidnapping me,” David told the conductor. “Because I’m an adult who does adult things, like taxes and laundry and being sad for no reason.

What’s that on your finger?” Helen said, “His finger? Did he hurt--What.” Arthur held up his hand, the ring snug, weighted, a presence he could not deny. “Oh, this? I barely remembered it was even there.” “Liar,” Linus mumbled as he blushed.

The children are going to adore him.” Linus shivered despite the summer heat. “That’s what worries me. Lucy’s going to love him.” He sighed, undoubtedly imagining explosions or blood splatter on the walls. “I’m already losing my hair as it is.

Lucy eyed him slyly. “What if I don’t become who you want me to be?” Arthur expected this. Pushing up against perceived boundaries, testing how far they could stretch. All the children did this at one point or another. It went back to what Arthur had said during the hearing, about children being told no and immediately asking why. “I would love you just the same.

It’s quite the conundrum. These days, socks aren’t like what we wore at your age. Many of them have little designs, but our trousers are far too long to show them off.” “And removing your shoes without invitation is quite rude,” Linus added. “Indeed,” Arthur said. “Can you imagine?” “I shudder to think. Even if there is a decorative sock, one must remember decorum.

Phee glared at them. “If anyone tries to take bacon from me, I’m going to turn them into a tree. And not a good tree. A bad one, like a Bradford pear tree.” They stared at her. She threw up her hands. “Have I taught you nothing? The Bradford pear tree has thorns and the flowers smell like tuna. No one has ever said, oh gee, let me get a good, long sniff of fish flowers.

Can you promise he’s not going to split the planet open like an egg?” “Oh,” Arthur said. “I highly doubt it. You see, he’s still learning how to crack chicken eggs properly, so I expect it’ll be quite some time before he’s ready for planetary destruction.” Every dace stared up at him in shock. “Remember what I told you about your sense of humor?” Linus hissed at him. “Now is not the time to try and be funny!” “Try,” Arthur huffed. “Ouch.” He raised his voice once more. “That was a poor attempt at humor. My apologies. To answer your question, Earth will not be destroyed today.” “Or anytime in the future,” Linus added loudly.

And I’ll open up a dimensional doorway in the fabric of reality and send her to a place where even demons fear to tread. What is this evil place, you might be asking? Great question!” He spread his hands wide in a practiced display of showmanship. “It’s called … Florida.

Then, “If what you’re saying is true, how has DICOMY not discovered you? Or Doreen?” Larmina laughed bitterly. “Because we understand how the minds of men work. Give them a little smile, touch their arm, hang on their every word, and they believe they’re God’s gift to women.

But you also taught us not to take on the mistakes of others as if they’re our own,” Sal continued. “You said that there are too many people out there who want us to apologize for everything, even existing. So why are you giving them the satisfaction when it wasn’t your mistake?

Arthur remembered something he should've never forgotten in the first place: no matter how much research he did, it wasn't thick tomes that would teach him what he needed to know, at least not fully. Firsthand experience was just as--if not more--important than anything he could read about.

And I worry! I worry all the time about the children. I worry about them when they sleep. When they wake up. When they run, when they eat, when they laugh or cry or sneeze. When they ask questions or when they answer questions. What does that make me?” Linus snorted. “That makes you a father.” Arthur blinked, lifting his head to look at Linus. “What?” “It makes you their father,” Linus said again. “And they are so very lucky to have you.

You don’t know us, and we don’t know you. But things are good here.” “I’ve heard that before,” David said. “Yeah,” Sal said. “I bet you have. Difference is, it’s true here. You don’t have to trust anything I’m saying.” He laughed. “Hell, I wouldn’t if I were you. But you’ll believe soon enough.

Oh my, that was such a restful sleep. Wouldn’t you agree, dear Linus?” “Quite!” Linus practically shouted. “I’m not even remotely concerned about the state of the kitchen and instead am focused on how rested I feel!” They both had to stifle laughter when Chauncey began to yell, “Battle stations! Battle stations! The chickens are coming home to roost!” Another din from the kitchen, this time followed by Lucy shouting, “But we’re not ready yet! Choke the chickens!

David opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. He stared up at the sight before him and said, “You named a door after me?” “That’s exactly right,” Sal said with a solemn nod. “Surprise. You’re welcome.” “Oh. Thank… you? I’ve never had anyone name a door after me before.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes which were once again wary. “Why don’t you open the door?” Arthur suggested. “I have a feeling there’s a little more behind it that might help allay any confusion.

I felt in that moment as if it were all a dream—the training, my former life, the world I had left behind. None of that mattered anymore. Only this place mattered, only this moment, and not because the psychologist had hypnotized me. In the grip of that powerful emotion, I stared out toward the coast, through the jagged narrow spaces between the trees. There, a greater darkness gathered, the confluence of the night, the clouds, and the sea. Somewhere beyond, another border.

assuage Arthur’s guilt. How could he tell one child he could be a thing, but tell another that he couldn’t do the same? Granted, David’s idea of being a monster wasn’t the same as Lucy’s, but was it fair to hold one person to a standard and another to something else entirely? “Guys!” Sal called. “I think we have a problem.

What do you have there?” Arthur asked David. “It’s a translation book,” David said. “To help me learn wyvern.” He flipped through the pages, eyes darting side to side as he read. “Where’s the section on curse words?” Linus crossed his arms. “I doubt they would have put such a thing in--” “In the back,” Phee said. “Last three pages.

Hold on a second. Did you… did you just trick me into wanting to go to school?” “I did,” Arthur said. “And funnily enough, I don’t feel badly about it in the slightest.” “I’m on to you,” David said, pointing a blunt finger at him. “I see right through you.” “Delightful,” Arthur said. “Given that transparency is paramount, I prefer not to be opaque.

It’s about intent. What we want from it, what we plan to do with it in the future. My grandmother always said that the earth, the sea, all of it listens to everything we do. It knows those who mean it harm, those who would use it to cause pain and suffering. If we do this, we will be its protectors.” She smiled at the children. “You will be its queens

Arthur, too, wore a suit. His coat and trousers were navy blue, his dress shirt covered in blooms that reminded him of Talia’s garden. The top plastic button at his throat had been replaced by a brass one, sewn on with care. His tie was a wonderful shade of green, not unlike a certain bellhop. His shortened trousers revealed gray socks with little fluffy Pomeranians on them. Pinned to his shirt, a small gold leaf plucked from a tree on the island grown by a forest sprite. On his jacket, a pocket square, black with little red devil horns on it.

Beyond The Sea" Somewhere beyond the sea Somewhere waiting for me My lover stands on golden sands And watches the ships that go sailing Somewhere beyond the sea She's there watching for me If I could fly like birds on high Then straight to her arms I'd go sailing It's far beyond the stars It's near beyond the moon I know beyond a doubt My heart will lead me there soon We'll meet beyond the shore We'll kiss just as before Happy we'll be beyond the sea And never again I'll go sailing I know beyond a doubt My heart will lead me there soon We'll meet (I know we'll meet) beyond the shore We'll kiss just as before Happy we'll be beyond the sea And never again I'll go sailing No more sailing So long sailing Bye, bye sailing...

Then why should I be any different? Doing the right thing isn’t about accolades or recognition.” “Then why do it at all?” he asked, wanting to hear her answer. She flushed, picking at a loose string on the robe. She was embarrassed, but powered through it. “You do it because maybe someone will see and do the same for another, and then that person will help someone else.

Oh my freaking God, what are those heathens eating?” Linus said, “Snow cones. Ice with flavored syrup as a topping.” David turned toward him with wide eyes. “They ruined ice? The most perfect thing in all the world?” He bared his teeth. “I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all. Ha, ha, just kidding.” Then, under his breath, “Mostly.” “No snow cones, then,” Arthur said. “Noted.

Trust, Arthur knew, was a treasure effortlessly stolen, often without rhyme or reason. And this particular treasure was a fragile thing, a piece of thin glass easily broken. But here was David, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar place, attempting to pick up his pieces and put them back into a recognizable shape. Whatever else he was, David’s bravery in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds proved yet again what Arthur had always believed: magic existed in many forms, some extraordinary, some simple acts of goodwill and trust, small though they might be.

Her face suddenly changed, going from a flat mask to big eyes and pouty lips. When she spoke again, her voice was in a higher register. “And that’s all we are. Pretty girls without a thought in our heads.” The facade melted, replaced by steel. “That’s the funny thing about those in power. They underestimate everyone beneath them, even knowing their secrets are heard by someone.

Why don’t we start with a question. What do you want to be when you grow up?” “A monster,” David said promptly. “Fascinating,” Arthur said. “I’d like to hear more about that, if you’re comfortable with sharing.” David stared at him in disbelief. “Why aren’t you scared or mad?” “Because I have no reason to be, at least not currently. I’ll let you know should that change. Continue, if you please.

But I do know that when you and I approach God for help, filled with our cares and distresses, our prayers are not confined to this calendar date, to this particular month and year. What may seem to be His silence and avoidance from where you sit today is already reverberating in future places. If not right here, if not right now, you can be sure His ability is taking visible, tangible shape somewhere, even if beyond the scope of your current sightline. You and I are living right this minute on a tiny dot of time within a vast sea of God-moments. And the ripple effect of today’s prayer, today’s faith—today’s now—spirals out in all directions for all eternity, bumping something here, affecting something there, all under God’s watchful eye and wisdom. Each time we turn to Him, each time we trust, each time we bring our all to the surpassing greatness of His all, we find ourselves instantly connected to every future time zone where His ability lives. We link up across generations where He is already working, present-tense, to make His glory known.

Well, it is Chauncey’s day,” Linus said. “Let’s see what he thinks. Chauncey, would you like to explain a little more?” Chauncey jerked back into the boat, face dripping with water. His eyes darted side to side. “Um. I think we’ve talked about this enough. We should just go home and--” “Chauncey,” Sal said. “Did you eat Frank?” “What! Of course not! That goes against everything I stand for! I would never--” “We can see him in your stomach,” Phee said.

You tell yourself it’s for the greater good, and it may very well be. Does that make it right?” Lucy stared at Arthur with ancient eyes. “It’d make things easier.” “Perhaps,” Arthur said. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Even if your intentions are pure, does eradicating free will to get the end result you desire make your actions right?” Lucy hesitated. “I… don’t know?” “And it’s okay not to know,” Arthur said. “It comes back to the idea of moral relativism.” Lucy groaned, sounding so much like Linus that Arthur grinned. “Yes, yes, it’s terribly inconsiderate of me to spring philosophy on you. I will do better in the future.

What about this, then?” The metal surface rippled at his touch, stretching and splitting into a million thin wires that made it look like a giant version of one of those pin art toys Sophie used to play with as a kid. He tapped his fingers in a quick rhythm, and the pins shifted and sank, forming highs and lows and smooth, flat stretches. Sophie couldn’t figure out what she was seeing until he tapped a few additional beats and tiny pricks of light flared at the ends of each wire, bathing the scene in vibrant colors and marking everything with glowing labels. “It’s a map,” she murmured, making a slow circle around the table. And not just any map. A 3-D map of the Lost Cities. She’d never seen her world like that before, with everything spread out across the planet in relation to everything else. Eternalia, the elvin capital that had likely inspired the human myths of Shangri-la, was much closer to the Sanctuary than she’d realized, nestled into one of the valleys of the Himalayas—while the special animal preserve was hidden inside the hollowed-out mountains. Atlantis was deep under the Mediterranean Sea, just like the human legends described, and it looked like Mysterium was somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. The Gateway to Exile was in the middle of the Sahara desert—though the prison itself was buried in the center of the earth. And Lumenaria… “Wait. Is Lumenaria one of the Channel Islands?” she asked, trying to compare what she was seeing against the maps she’d memorized in her human geography classes. “Yes and no. It’s technically part of the same archipelago. But we’ve kept that particular island hidden, so humans have no idea it exists—well, beyond the convoluted stories we’ve occasionally leaked to cause confusion.

The Garden of Proserpine" Here, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.

And everywhere, just as there were animals on land, were the animals of the sea. The tiniest fish made the largest schools- herring, anchovies, and baby mackerel sparkling and cavorting in the light like a million diamonds. They twirled into whirlpools and flowed over the sandy floor like one large, unlikely animal. Slightly larger fish came in a rainbow, red and yellow and blue and orange and purple and green and particolored like clowns: dragonets and blennies and gobies and combers. Hake, shad, char, whiting, cod, flounder, and mullet made the solid middle class. The biggest loners, groupers and oarfish and dogfish and the major sharks and tuna that all grew to a large, ripe old age did so because they had figured out how to avoid human boats, nets, lines, and bait. The black-eyed predators were well aware they were top of the food chain only down deep, and somewhere beyond the surface there were things even more hungry and frightening than they. Rounding out the population were the famous un-fish of the ocean: the octopus, flexing and swirling the ends of her tentacles; delicate jellyfish like fairies; lobsters and sea stars; urchins and nudibranchs... the funny, caterpillar-like creatures that flowed over the ocean floor wearing all kinds of colors and appendages. All of these creatures woke, slept, played, swam about, and lived their whole lives under the sea, unconcerned with what went on above them. But there were other animals in this land, strange ones, who spoke both sky and sea. Seals and dolphins and turtles and the rare fin whale would come down to hunt or talk for a bit and then vanish to that strange membrane that separated the ocean from everything else. Of course they were loved- but perhaps not quite entirely trusted.

Look at that, Kovacs. We’re drinking coffee so far from Earth you have to work hard to pick out Sol in the night sky. We were carried here on a wind that blows in a dimension we cannot see or touch. Stored as dreams in the mind of a machine that thinks in a fashion so far in advance of our own brains it might as well carry the name of god. We have been resurrected into bodies not our own, grown in a secret garden without the body of any mortal woman. These are the facts of our existence, Kovacs. How, then, are they different, or any less mystical, than the belief that there is another realm where the dead live in the company of beings so far beyond us we must call them gods?” --- Or maybe it was just that I’d been there, to the legendary home of the human race, and now, looking up, I could imagine, a single astronomical unit out from the glimmering star, a world in spin, a city by the sea dropping away into darkness as night came on, or rolling back up and into the light, a police cruiser parked somewhere and a certain police lieutenant drinking coffee not much better than mine and maybe thinking…

To my trans readers: this book is dedicated to you. Without you, there would be no us. You are vital, beautiful, and you deserve everything good in this world. There are so many more of us than there are of them. Yes, they’re loud and it can feel like their hate is all we see and hear. And yet, I constantly think about the twelve-year-old boy I met at a small school in West Virginia. After speaking to a group of kids, this boy came up to me and said, “I know all about the gay stuff.” Bewildered, I replied, “What do mean?” He said, “Last year, I had a girlfriend. He came out as trans, and now he’s my boyfriend.” If it is that easy for a child, why is it so hard for adults? I don’t have an answer to that, aside from this: the younger generations are smart, worldly, and they pay attention. They know what’s going on, and they are furious. Between their trans classmates being attacked to books being banned from their libraries, the children know what is being done to them. And when they get old enough, they are going to make this world into what it should have been from the beginning: a place where everyone gets to be free without fear of repercussions because of who they are.

You will see that the most powerful and highly placed men let drop remarks in which they long for leisure, acclaim it, and prefer it to all their blessings. They desire at times, if it could be with safety, to descend from their high pinnacle; for, though nothing from without should assail or shatter, Fortune of its very self comes crashing down.8 The deified Augustus, to whom the gods vouchsafed more than to any other man, did not cease to pray for rest and to seek release from public affairs; all his conversation ever reverted to this subject—his hope of leisure. This was the sweet, even if vain, consolation with which he would gladden his labours—that he would one day live for himself. In a letter addressed to the senate, in which he had promised that his rest would not be devoid of dignity nor inconsistent with his former glory, I find these words: "But these matters can be shown better by deeds than by promises. Nevertheless, since the joyful reality is still far distant, my desire for that time most earnestly prayed for has led me to forestall some of its delight by the pleasure of words." So desirable a thing did leisure seem that he anticipated it in thought because he could not attain it in reality. He who saw everything depending upon himself alone, who determined the fortune of individuals and of nations, thought most happily of that future day on which he should lay aside his greatness. He had discovered how much sweat those blessings that shone throughout all lands drew forth, how many secret worries they concealed. Forced to pit arms first against his countrymen, then against his colleagues, and lastly against his relatives, he shed blood on land and sea. Through Macedonia, Sicily, Egypt, Syria, and Asia, and almost all countries he followed the path of battle, and when his troops were weary of shedding Roman blood, he turned them to foreign wars. While he was pacifying the Alpine regions, and subduing the enemies planted in the midst of a peaceful empire, while he was extending its bounds even beyond the Rhine and the Euphrates and the Danube, in Rome itself the swords of Murena, Caepio, Lepidus, Egnatius, and others were being whetted to slay him. Not yet had he escaped their plots, when his daughter9 and all the noble youths who were bound to her by adultery as by a sacred oath, oft alarmed his failing years—and there was Paulus, and a second time the need to fear a woman in league with an Antony.10 When be had cut away these ulcers11 together with the limbs themselves, others would grow in their place; just as in a body that was overburdened with blood, there was always a rupture somewhere. And so he longed for leisure, in the hope and thought of which he found relief for his labours. This was the prayer of one who was able to answer the prayers of mankind.

Now there is this song on the saxophone. And I am ashamed. A glorious little suffering has just been born, an exemplary suffering. Four notes on the saxophone. They come and go, they seem to say: You must be like us, suffer in rhythm. All right! Naturally, I’d like to suffer that way, in rhythm, without complacence, without self-pity, with an arid purity. But is it my fault if the beer at the bottom of my glass is warm, if there are brown stains on the mirror, if I am not wanted, if the sincerest of my sufferings drags and weighs, with too much flesh and the skin too wide at the same time, like a sea-elephant, with bulging eyes, damp and touching and yet so ugly? No, they certainly can’t tell me it’s compassionate—this little jewelled pain which spins around above the record and dazzles me. Not even ironic: it spins gaily, completely self-absorbed; like a scythe it has cut through the drab intimacy of the world and now it spins and all of us, Madeleine, the thick-set man, the patronne, myself, the tables, benches, the stained mirror, the glasses, all of us abandon ourselves to existence, because we were among ourselves, only among ourselves, it has taken us unawares, in the disorder, the day to day drift: I am ashamed for myself and for what exists in front of it. It does not exist. It is even an annoyance; if I were to get up and rip this record from the table which holds it, if I were to break it in two, I wouldn’t reach it. It is beyond—always beyond something, a voice, a violin note. Through layers and layers of existence, it veils itself, thin and firm, and when you want to seize it, you find only existants, you butt against existants devoid of sense. It is behind them: I don’t even hear it, I hear sounds, vibrations in the air which unveil it. It does not exist because it has nothing superfluous: it is all the rest which in relation to it is superfluous. It is. And I, too, wanted to be. That is all I wanted; this is the last word. At the bottom of all these attempts which seemed without bonds, I find the same desire again: to drive existence out of me, to rid the passing moments of their fat, to twist them, dry them, purify myself, harden myself, to give back at last the sharp, precise sound of a saxophone note. That could even make an apologue: there was a poor man who got in the wrong world. He existed, like other people, in a world of public parks, bistros, commercial cities and he wanted to persuade himself that he was living somewhere else, behind the canvas of paintings, with the doges of Tintoretto, with Gozzoli’s Florentines, behind the pages of books, with Fabrizio del Dongo and Julien Sorel, behind the phonograph records, with the long dry laments of jazz. And then, after making a complete fool of himself, he understood, he opened his eyes, he saw that it was a misdeal: he was in a bistro, just in front of a glass of warm beer. He stayed overwhelmed on the bench; he thought: I am a fool. And at that very moment, on the other side of existence, in this other world which you can see in the distance, but without ever approaching it, a little melody began to sing and dance: “You must be like me; you must suffer in rhythm.

Put yourself in the way of grace,' says a friend of ours, who is a monk, and a bishop; and he smiles his floating and shining smile. And truly, can there be a subject of more interest to each of us than whether or not grace exists, and the soul? And, consequent upon the existence of the soul, a whole landscape of incorruptible forces, perhaps even a source, an almost palpably suggested second universe? A world that is incomprehensible through reason? To believe in the soul---to believe in it exactly as much and as hardily as one believes in a mountain, say, or a fingernail, which is ever in view---imagine the consequences! How far-reaching, and thoroughly wonderful! For everything, by such a belief, would be charged, and changed. You wake in the morning, the soul exists, your mouth sings it, your mind accepts it. And the perceived, tactile world is, upon the instant, only half the world! How easily I travel, about halfway, through such a scenario. I believe in the soul---in mine, and yours, and the blue-jay's, and the pilot whale's. I believe each goldfinch flying away over the coarse ragweed has a soul, and the ragweed too, plant by plant, and the tiny stones in the earth below, and the grains of earth as well. Not romantically do I believe this, nor poetically, nor emotionally, nor metaphorically except as all reality is metaphor, but steadily, lumpishly, and absolutely. The wild waste spaces of the sea, and the pale dunes with one hawk hanging in the wind, they are for me the formal spaces that, in a liturgy, are taken up by prayer, song, sermon, silence, homily, scripture, the architecture of the church itself. And as with prayer, which is a dipping of oneself toward the light, there is a consequence of attentiveness to the grass itself, and the sky itself, and to the floating bird. I too leave the fret and enclosure of my own life. I too dip myself toward the immeasurable. Now winter, the winter I am writing about, begins to ease. And what, if anything, has been determined, selected, nailed down? This is the lesson of age---events pass, things change, trauma fades, good fortune rises, fades, rises again but different. Whereas what happens when one is twenty, as I remember it, happens forever. I have not been twenty for a long time! The sun rolls toward the north and I feel, gratefully, its brightness flaming up once more. Somewhere in the world the misery we can do nothing about yet goes on. Somewhere the words I will write down next year, and the next, are drifting into the wind, out of the ornate pods of the weeds of the Provincelands. Once I went into the woods to find an almost unfindable bird, a blue grosbeak. And I found it: a rough, deep blue, almost black, with heavy beak; it was plucking one by one the humped, pale green caterpillars from the leaves of a thick green tree. Then it vanished into the shadows of the leaves and, in the same moment, from the crown of the tree flew a western bluebird---little aqua thrush of the mountains, hundreds of miles from its home. It is a moment hard to top---but, I can. Once I came upon two angels, they were standing quietly, keeping guard beside a car. Light streamed from them, and a splash of flames lay quietly under their feet. What is one to do with such moments, such memories, but cherish them? Who knows what is beyond the known? And if you think that any day the secret of light might come, would you not keep the house of your mind ready? Would you not cleanse your study of all that is cheap, or trivial? Would you not live in continual hope, and pleasure, and excitement?