'...Every inch of the earth is, after all, so dangerous. Here, where we stand, a minute or a million years ago, some heart failed. There, at that point to which our dear love is hurrying, the lightning struck, the germ of plague was born, the murderer will stab - a minute or a million years hence - a minute or a million years ago. Living is a matter of missing death by a hair's breadth or an aeon - it doesn't matter which - and dying is a matter of coincidence. If we knew the past and the future of every yard of every path we tread, or of every stone our dear love's foot turns over as he goes - where should we turn for peace? Once we have realised the billions of deaths and horrors that have been, the billions that will be, every inch of the world seems soaked in blood...'
from Tobit Transplanted by Stella Benson (Chapter IX)
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