The trees are dead. The days are an arrow in a dead man's chest. — John Gardner

"Poor Grendel's had an accident," I whisper. ''"So may you all."

Grendel, Grendel! You make the world by whispers, second by second. Are you blind to that? Whether you make it a grave or garden of roses is not the point. Feel the wall: is it not hard? He smashes me against it. Hard, yes! Observe the hardness, write it down in careful runes. Now, sing of walls! Sing!

Terrible, he whispers. Terrible. He laughs and lets out fire.