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382 pages, Hardcover
First published March 7, 2023
“Ellwood smiled, and a sudden, dry bleakness spread over Gaunt’s heart as he thought of Hercules, and Hector, and all the heroes in myth who found happiness briefly, only for it not to be the end of the story.”
“He went there in the mornings, sometimes, and gave himself to that strange country rapture, that deep, bonewarming feeling that England was his, and he was England’s. He felt it as strongly as if his ancestors had been there a thousand years. Perhaps he felt it more strongly because they hadn’t.”
“Ellwood’s England was magical, thought Gaunt, picking his way around nettles. But it wasn’t England.”
“It was the Hell you’d feared in childhood, come to devour the children . It was treading over the corpses of your friends so that you might be killed yourself. It was the congealed evil of a century.”
“I wish I could be more articulate, but the English language fails me. It sometimes feels as if the only words that still have meaning are place names: Ypres, Mons, Artois. Nothing else expresses.”
“My dearest, darling Sidney, There was nothing else.”
“Gaunt was woven into everything he read, saw, wrote, did, dreamt. Every poem had been written about him, every song composed for him, and Ellwood could not scrape his mind clean of him no matter how he tried. He thought perhaps all the pain would sour the love, but instead it drew him further in, as if he were Marc Antony, falling on his own sword. And it was a magical thing, to love someone so much; it was a feeling so strange and slippery, like a sheath of fabric cut from the sky.”
“Ellwood was surprised to find that he was not glad either, although his hatred grew and grew. But he could not hate soldiers. He longed to destroy, to hurt, to kill, but he wasn’t sure whom. Possibly the civilians.”
“Ellwood had never been interested in ugliness, whereas Gaunt […] feared that ugliness was too important to ignore..”
“How alive it all seemed, and how gracious—to die in an era when your death bought you a brief moment at the centre of something. To be important, rather than one of millions.”
“It was a common conversation. In 1913, you might ask a new acquaintance where he had gone to school, or what he did for a living. In 1916, it was this: what part of yourself did you most fear losing?”
“He did not know that it was the first thing homesick little boys in their dormitories learnt at boarding school: how to cry in silence.”
Ellwood folded up the letter and put it into his pocket, glancing around at his bedroom. It was the nicest he'd had at Preshute, and he would miss it. Gaunt always said hed lived a charmed life. It was true that Ellwood found most things easy: people liked him, he was good at sports, good at lessons. He had never been seriously teased nor bullied, despite the obvious reasons he might have been. Gaunt, meanwhile, had struggled along until he got so tall and strong and impenetrable that no one could hurt him. Gaunt, in fact, represented the only real trial Ellwood had ever gone through. Unrequited love was a difficult thing to live with, but Elwood managed because Gaunt needed him.
He had never really known how much. This letter was not the way he would have chosen to discover the depths to which he was embedded in Gaunts soul.
“what i meant to say is this: you’ll write more poems. they are not lost. you are the poetry.
yours, gaunt”
"What I meant to say is this: You’ll write more poems. They are not lost. You are the poetry.”