The same blows that cast him to the ground projected him at once for ahead into his life, toward the future years when, wounded, he would no longer bleed from the iniquity of one being. Like the bush solaced by its roots, pressing its bruised boughs against its resistant bole, he would then descend backward into the silence of this knowledge and into its innocence. At last he escaped fleeing, and attained a sovereign happiness. He reached the meadow and the barrier of reeds whose slime he coaxed and whose dry quivering he watched. It seemed that the noblest and most enduring things that the earth had brought forth had, in compensation, adopted him.
Thus he would start again until, no longer needing to break off the battle, he could hold himself upright and attentive among men, more vulnerable and yet stronger.
[MAC]