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Unformatted text preview: t by the arrow of it, and unable for a long moment to breathe. I knew what was happening around me. The great roasted boar's head had been brought in, surrounded by greenery and gold and silver decorations and candles, and wooden apples painted to look real. 493 And the boars for eating were borne in by boys who carried them on the very spits on which they'd been cooked, and now set them down upon side tables and began to cut the steaming meat. I saw all this, I heard it. But my mind was swept with the mournful music of the monks. A lovely Gaelic carol rising softly from some twenty or thirty gentle mouths: What child is this who laid to rest In Mary's arms is sleeping . . . You know the air, it is as old as Christmas in Ireland or Scotland itself. And if you remember its melody, then you can perhaps grasp a little of what this was to me, this moment, when my heart sang with the monks on the stairs, and the room became subordinated to the song. It seemed I remembered then the bliss I had known inside my mother. Or was it from some other time? I do not know, except that the feeling was so fully and deeply fe...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10