I would burn my right hand in a slow fire To change the future . . . I should do foolishly. The beauty of modern Man is not in the persons but in the… - Robinson Jeffers

We have to live like people in a web of knives, we mustn't reach out our hands or we get them gashed.

"The old woman sits on a bench before the door and quarrels
With her meagre pale demoralized daughter.
Once when I passed I found her alone, laughing in the sun
And saying that when she was first married
She lived in the old farmhouse up Garapatas Canyon.
(It is empty now, the roof has fallen
But the log walls hang on the stone foundation; the redwoods
Have all been cut down, the oaks are standing;
The place is now more solitary than ever before.)
"When I was nursing my second baby
My husband found a day-old fawn hid in a fern-brake
And brought it; I put its mouth to the breast
Rather than let it starve, I had milk enough for three babies.
Hey how it sucked, the little nuzzler,
Digging its little hoofs like quills into my stomach.
I had more joy from that than from the others."
Her face is deformed with age, furrowed like a bad road
With market-wagons, mean cares and decay.
She is thrown up to the surface of things, a cell of dry skin
Soon to be shed from the earth's old eye-brows,
I see that once in her spring she lived in the streaming arteries,
The stir of the world, the music of the mountain."

Actaeon who saw the goddess naked among the leaves and
his hounds tore him
A little knowledge, a pebble from the shingle
A drop from the oceans: who would have dreamed this
infinitely little too much.