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.
“I’m not what you would call a writerish type. Writing is something I have done to make big bad time go away when there is too much of it coming down upon me at once.”