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Unformatted text preview: to die in this darkness. Indeed, I saw in the mind's mist a dark tunnel down which I had come, and I wanted to go back into it. I began to cry. My father put his arm around me. "Don't weep, Ashlar," he said. "It is the work of God." "How so the work of God? My mother could be burnt at the stake." I was already thirsting for milk. I wanted hers, and it embittered me that I had not taken more before I left. And the thought that anyone could commit this flesh of my flesh, my mother, to the flames, seemed impious and worth dying to prevent. This is my birth I'm describing to you. This is a succession of hours, lived by the light of candles and never forgotten as long as I was in the flesh. This is what I now remember vividly, because I am flesh again. But the name Ashlar I didn't know. I do not know now and never will know who Ashlar really was-as you shall see. Mark me on this. Understand. Understand fully. I know nothing of the original saint. Later I would see things; I would be told tales. I would see St. Ashlar in the st...
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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