Once there were brook trouts in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery. - Cormac McCarthy
I've sent that paragraph to so many people. It was so cool to see it referenced in an offhanded way in your post (assuming that most people know about it already, which maybe they do).
It is good to sometimes go back, look back, think back. I appreciate the poem because Baptism is to start anew.
Once there were brook trouts in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery. - Cormac McCarthy
One of the most remarkable and haunting paragraphs ever written in the English language.
I've sent that paragraph to so many people. It was so cool to see it referenced in an offhanded way in your post (assuming that most people know about it already, which maybe they do).