was not afraid to do what she was doing. This is why the man she was doing it with was not afraid, either.
They all knew whose the fear was—especially did the spouse who had it.
But now it was worse. That father was afraid of that boy. He was even more afraid of that boy than he was of the other two things he was afraid of.
I think it was because he loved that boy the less.
There was fear in the first family too. The spouse who ran away was afraid. That is why he did it.
The two children were afraid when the father ran away. They thought everybody would run away. Well, this was when the light in those children began to go out. They were turned down, turned out, both parents were willing to agree.
They agreed on there having been some loss of light. But they did not agree whom to blame for this. So the spouse who wanted to murder in the first place set out to try it again. She would have to go from coast to coast to try it. But considering the greatness of her aim, the journey seemed no tall order.
She wanted to get to the one who would know the most about the loss of light. You can see how she would.
She set out by car to do it.
MEANWHILE —meanwhile in these sentences, not meanwhile in these events—the father of that boy called that boy back to him.
"I want to explain," that father said.
"You're a coward," the boy said.
"Give me a minute," that father said. "Don't be so quick to call a man a coward. I want to make one last appeal to you. May I make one to you?"
"That's what cowards do," the boy said.
But perhaps the boy knew this father loved him less than this father did his other son. Children so often know. It happens when they say their prayers and must give a sequence to those they number in them.
"It takes a strong man to go along with a sadness," that father started off. "It takes a very strong man to stay put. It takes the strongest man for him to be a coward if this is what his son, in a father, has to have."
How this came out of his mouth was not how that father had wanted it to. It was hard to get his point. He knew he had one, but what you just heard was the best that father could do.
"It takes a strong man to kill," is what that boy said, and it took him no time at all for him to say it.
The boy was not all that young. But he was too young for the idea the father thought he had in mind. That was when the father had another one.
He went to the man his son said was the stronger. This is what the father said to the man:
"You're stronger than I am. Your body is stronger. Your mind is stronger. I am going to tell you something. My boy knows. The older one knows, but now the younger one does too. It's okay about the older one—because I love him the more of the two—and I think it is all right for me to say that. But because I love the younger one the less is what makes it really bad for us. I can't do what I'm doing anymore. I have to do something else. But am I strong enough to do it? You know I'm not. But you are. Tell me if you are following me so far."
"I'm way ahead of you," the man said. "You have to do something, but you can't do it. So you want me to be the one to do it for you, check?"
That father liked this. He said, "What proof that you're the stronger! You see the point? Kill her for me. What is your answer?"
"I don't mind," the man said.
"You owe it to me—don't you think?" that father said as fast as he could, already compiling the sentences that would turn over his sly purpose to the son he loved the less. It would test that father to postpone the tale of his irony. But that father was very strong. He could wait.
"I like it," the man said, "that complexity of reasoning. It's strong."
That father was at the mercy of utterance. He said, "But you're complexer for knowing it."
SHE TOOK THE CHILDREN with her. She planned everything—the same way she had planned it in the first place. But now she had to use a map—for where was her navigator, for where was he indeed?
She
They all knew whose the fear was—especially did the spouse who had it.
But now it was worse. That father was afraid of that boy. He was even more afraid of that boy than he was of the other two things he was afraid of.
I think it was because he loved that boy the less.
There was fear in the first family too. The spouse who ran away was afraid. That is why he did it.
The two children were afraid when the father ran away. They thought everybody would run away. Well, this was when the light in those children began to go out. They were turned down, turned out, both parents were willing to agree.
They agreed on there having been some loss of light. But they did not agree whom to blame for this. So the spouse who wanted to murder in the first place set out to try it again. She would have to go from coast to coast to try it. But considering the greatness of her aim, the journey seemed no tall order.
She wanted to get to the one who would know the most about the loss of light. You can see how she would.
She set out by car to do it.
MEANWHILE —meanwhile in these sentences, not meanwhile in these events—the father of that boy called that boy back to him.
"I want to explain," that father said.
"You're a coward," the boy said.
"Give me a minute," that father said. "Don't be so quick to call a man a coward. I want to make one last appeal to you. May I make one to you?"
"That's what cowards do," the boy said.
But perhaps the boy knew this father loved him less than this father did his other son. Children so often know. It happens when they say their prayers and must give a sequence to those they number in them.
"It takes a strong man to go along with a sadness," that father started off. "It takes a very strong man to stay put. It takes the strongest man for him to be a coward if this is what his son, in a father, has to have."
How this came out of his mouth was not how that father had wanted it to. It was hard to get his point. He knew he had one, but what you just heard was the best that father could do.
"It takes a strong man to kill," is what that boy said, and it took him no time at all for him to say it.
The boy was not all that young. But he was too young for the idea the father thought he had in mind. That was when the father had another one.
He went to the man his son said was the stronger. This is what the father said to the man:
"You're stronger than I am. Your body is stronger. Your mind is stronger. I am going to tell you something. My boy knows. The older one knows, but now the younger one does too. It's okay about the older one—because I love him the more of the two—and I think it is all right for me to say that. But because I love the younger one the less is what makes it really bad for us. I can't do what I'm doing anymore. I have to do something else. But am I strong enough to do it? You know I'm not. But you are. Tell me if you are following me so far."
"I'm way ahead of you," the man said. "You have to do something, but you can't do it. So you want me to be the one to do it for you, check?"
That father liked this. He said, "What proof that you're the stronger! You see the point? Kill her for me. What is your answer?"
"I don't mind," the man said.
"You owe it to me—don't you think?" that father said as fast as he could, already compiling the sentences that would turn over his sly purpose to the son he loved the less. It would test that father to postpone the tale of his irony. But that father was very strong. He could wait.
"I like it," the man said, "that complexity of reasoning. It's strong."
That father was at the mercy of utterance. He said, "But you're complexer for knowing it."
SHE TOOK THE CHILDREN with her. She planned everything—the same way she had planned it in the first place. But now she had to use a map—for where was her navigator, for where was he indeed?
She
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