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Unformatted text preview: yes. Again, he almost lost his balance, almost slipped into the grave. Then the garden appeared to him, glistening and dim. The hand was no longer visible down there at all. Perhaps the tumbling clods of earth had covered it as they must soon cover all the rest. A sound came from somewhere. A gate closing perhaps. Someone in the house? But he must hurry, no matter how weary he was and how sluggish and quiet he felt. Hurry. Slowly, for a quarter of an hour or more, he shoveled the moist earth into the hole. Now the rain was whispering around him, lighting up the shiny leaves of the camellias, and the stones of the path. He stood over the grave, leaning on the shovel. He said aloud the other verse of Julien's poem: Slay the flesh that is not human Trust to weapons crude and cruel LASHER For, dying on the verge of wisdom, Tortured souls may seek the light. Then he slumped down beside the oak, and closed his eyes. The pain thudded in him, as if it had waited patiently and now it had its moment. He couldn't breathe for a minute, but then he rested, rested with all his limbs and his heart and his soul, and his brea...
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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