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1152 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1981
They ran many miles that day. They ran through the night. And the next day found them still running. They were running over the surface of a world frozen and dead. No life stirred. They alone moved through the vast inertness. They alone were alive, and they sought for other things that were alive in order that they might devour them and continue to live.
In pain the babe sucks his first breath, in pain the old man gasps his last, and all his days are full of trouble and sorrow; yet he goes down to the open arms of Death, stumbling, falling, with head turned backward, fighting to the last. And Death is kind. It is only Life, and the things of Life that hurt. Yet we love Life and we hate Death.
Man can endure hardship and horror with equanimity, but take from him his sugar, and he raises his lamentations to the stars.
He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move.
…with a reputation for frightening brutality amongst the men who hunted seals
…[my brother] is all the happier for leaving life alone. He is too busy living it to think about it. My mistake was in ever opening the books.
“If I was President of the United Stytes to-morrer, ’ow would it fill my belly for one time w’en I was a kiddy and it went empty?”
He was older than the days he had seen and the breaths he had drawn.