Well, I Guess In All

The World Is Quite Ruthless In Selecting Between The Dream And The Reality, Even Where We Will Not.

What He Loved In Horses Was What He Loved In Men, The Blood And The Heat Of The Blood That Ran Them. All His Reverence And All His Fondness And All The Leanings Of His Life Were For The Ardenhearted And They Would Always Be So And Never Be Otherwise. (all The Pretty Horses)

The Voice Of The Almighty Speaks Most Profoundly In Such Things As Lives In Silence Themselves.

Things Separate From Their Stories Have No Meaning. They Are Only Shapes. Of A Certain Size And Color. A Certain Weight. When Their Meaning Has Become Lost To Us They No Longer Have Even A Name. The Story On The Other Hand Can Never Be Lost From Its Place In The World For It Is That Place.

He Can Give Me What You Cannot. Death Is Not A Lover. Oh Yes, He Is.