What things we do, he whispered in shame, such shame, what things we men do. Across the great clutch of history there lay in every corner cinders of some chauvinist sacrament. All will be rent to ruin beneath our banners, he thought.
What things we do, he whispered in shame, such shame, what things we men do. Across the great clutch of history there lay in every corner cinders of some chauvinist sacrament. All will be rent to ruin beneath our banners, he thought.
“Under the right pressure the past bursts into consciousness, as a string of images we have created — so we see not the past, but a part of ourselves, a sweet fragment to make us ache with the poignancy of time lost, and the beauty of connection with it.”
Kim Stanley Robinson | Icehenge