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336 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1951
The morning unfolds slowly; it creeps like a caterpillar over the hearts of the men and women in the city; it beats, almost caressingly, against the newly wakened eyes, eyes which never once discover new horizons, new landscapes, new settings.
And yet, this morning, this eternally repeated morning, has its little game changing the face of the city, of that tomb, that greased pole, that hive�
Martin walks down the long lanes of the cemetery. Sitting at the door of the chapel, the priest is immersed in a Wild West story. The sparrows are chirping in the mild December sun, they hop from one cross to the next and swing on the bare branches of the trees. A very young girl rides a bicycle down a path; in her immature voice she sings a gay song hit. Everything else is gentle silence, welcome silence. Martin has an ineffable sense of well-being.
The morning unfolds slowly; it creeps like a caterpillar over the hearts of the men and women in the city; it beats, almost caressingly, agents the newly wakened eyes, eyes which never once discover new horizons, new landscapes, new settings.
And yet, this morning, this eternally repeated morning, has its little game changing the face of the city, of that tomb, that greased pole, that hive�.
May God have mercy on us all!