Grandmother was dead two years now — the moth caught in

a gale and blown against a wall and clinging there

beating feebly, not with any particular stubborn clinging to life,

not in particular pain since it was too light to have

struck hard, nor even with very much remembrance of the

bright vacuum before the gale, but just in bewildered and

uncomprehending amazement — how grandfather mourned her passing and sat mute

and still on the veranda in the house at Lavasan,

counting the days one, two, three, five, steadily and ceaselessly,

to that blind chancy darkness which we call the future.

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Paraphrases from the novel Absalom, Absalom by William Faulkner.

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