Now days there are also a so many things which we have to know more and more regarding in all circumstances as well. Suppose that sometimes I went for the dinner, and after other person I am symbolizing he would walk into the woods that began behind the house he would stretch down on the ground, on his stomach, his elbows planted before him, his hands propping his chin, and he would watch the patterns of veins on the green blades of grass under his face; he would blow at them and watch the blades tremble then stop again. He would roll over on his back and lie still feeling the warmth of the earth under him. For above the leaves were still green, but it was a thick, compressed green, as if the color were condensed in one last effort before the dusk coming to dissolve it. The leaves hung without motion against a sky of polished lemon yellow; its luminous pallor emphasized that its light was foiling. He pressed his hips, his back into the earth under him
Sometimes, not often, he sat up and did not move for a long time; then he smiled, the slow smile of executions watching a victim. He thought of his days going by, of the buildings he could have been doing, should have been doing and, perhaps, never would be doing again. He watched the path’s unsummon appearances with a cold detached curiosity; he said to himself. Well, here it is again. He waited to see how long it would lose. It gave him a strange hard pleasure to watch his fight against it, and he could forget that is was his own suffering he could smile in contempt not realizing that he smiled at his own agony. Such moments were rare. But when they came, he felt as he did in the quarry: that he had to drill through granite, that he had a drive a wedge and blast the thing within him which persisted in calling to his pity.