“Is it the storm”, he said to himself, “that has a million voices?” Is it the rain? Is it the darkness that fills an old house of life and gives a tongue to silence, a voice t something that moves and creaks forever in the night?
… Is there a tongue to silence and the dark?
“And now the red light fades swiftly from the old red brick of rusty houses, and there are voices in the air, and somewhere music, and we are lying there, blind atoms in our cellar-depths, gray voiceless atoms in the manswarm desolation of the earth, and our fame is lost, our names forgotten, our powers are wasting from us like mined earth, while we lie here at evening and the river flows… and dark times is feeding like a vulture on our entrails, and wek now that we are lost, and cannot stir… and there are ships! there are ships!… and Christ! we are all dying in the darkness!… and yuh musta been away… yuh musta been away…
And that is a moment of dark time, that is one of strange million-visaged time’s dark faces.”
“Each of us is all the sums he has not counted: subtract us into nakedness and night again, and you shall see begin in Crete four thousand years ago the love that ended yesterday in Texas” – p. 3, Look Homeward, Angel.