Near the conclusion of the novel:
He wrestled, at the last, for a moment of quiet.
Remembering the Windsor Ruins. The pillars in the woods, standing tall, rain-soaked. The droplets pattering on the leaves and the needles and the limbs. The wet grass soaking with unapologetic deliberation through the knees of his blue jeans.
He knew she’d never ask him what he prayed for. It was his prayer, his prostration, his private communion with whatever God had taken shape for him. To intrude on such matters was not in her nature, nor was it his nature to volunteer details without first being asked.
That left him alone with it all, unable to share with anyone the worldless, shapeless character of his supplication.
How he’d prayed for peace without knowing what it meant for him. How in the end he asked only for the quiet of the ruins to penetrate some later state of chaos, and exist for a moment in perfect supremacy, numbing out the noise and the endless anarchy of everything he felt and loved and loathed.
If she’d asked him, he’d have fumbled without success for a means of description, both of the subject of his prayer and the way in which it seemed a lost cause even as it unfolded, and maybe, just maybe, she’d have been able to shed light on the affair – what it was about his mindset that made even the intervention of God seem insufficient to prevent his death.
But Abida wouldn’t ask, so Dig couldn’t fumble, and he remained alone with the certainty of doubt.
The memory of something sacrosanct and futile.
The mud on his knees as proof of his appeal.
He wrestled, at the last, for a moment of quiet.
Remembering the Windsor Ruins. The pillars in the woods, standing tall, rain-soaked. The droplets pattering on the leaves and the needles and the limbs. The wet grass soaking with unapologetic deliberation through the knees of his blue jeans.
He knew she’d never ask him what he prayed for. It was his prayer, his prostration, his private communion with whatever God had taken shape for him. To intrude on such matters was not in her nature, nor was it his nature to volunteer details without first being asked.
That left him alone with it all, unable to share with anyone the worldless, shapeless character of his supplication.
How he’d prayed for peace without knowing what it meant for him. How in the end he asked only for the quiet of the ruins to penetrate some later state of chaos, and exist for a moment in perfect supremacy, numbing out the noise and the endless anarchy of everything he felt and loved and loathed.
If she’d asked him, he’d have fumbled without success for a means of description, both of the subject of his prayer and the way in which it seemed a lost cause even as it unfolded, and maybe, just maybe, she’d have been able to shed light on the affair – what it was about his mindset that made even the intervention of God seem insufficient to prevent his death.
But Abida wouldn’t ask, so Dig couldn’t fumble, and he remained alone with the certainty of doubt.
The memory of something sacrosanct and futile.
The mud on his knees as proof of his appeal.
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