Men never resemble one another so much as when asleep or dead. — R. Scott Bakker

... for the sin of the idolator is not that he worships stone, but that he worships one stone over others.

Like many old tyrants, I dote upon my grandchildren. I delight in their tantrums, their squealing laughter, their peculiar fancies. I willfully spoil them with honey sticks. And I find myself wondering at their blessed ignorance of the world and its million grinning teeth. Should I, like my grandfather, knock such childishness from them? Or should I indulge their delusions? Even now, as death's shadow pickets gather about me, I ask, Why should innocence answer to the world? Perhaps the world should answer to innocence ...

Yes, I rather like that. I tire of bearing the blame.

For men, no circle is ever closed. We walk ever in spirals.