The rain is falling ever harder, and all I can hear is the sound of the water. I’m drenched, but I can’t move. I don’t want to leave, because I don’t know where to go

But after all we are not children, not illiterate juvenile delinquents, not English public school boys who after a night of homosexual romps have to endure the paradox of reading the Ancients in expurgated versions.

What I was chasing in circles must have been the tail of the darkness inside me.

In valley drift we meet commonly with the bones of quadrupeds which graze on plains bordering rivers.

Written By Charles Lyell

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