Light is the left hand of darkness and darkness the right hand of light. Two are one, life and death, lying together like lovers in kemmer, like hand… - Ursula K. Le Guin

The thing about working with time, instead of against it, he thought, is that it is not wasted. Even pain counts.

He did not know their songs, and only listened and was borne along on the music, until from up front there came sweeping back wave by wave down the great slow-moving river of people a tune he knew. He lifted his head high and sang it with them, in his own language as he had learned it: the Hymn of the Insurrection. It had been sung in these streets, in this same street, two hundred years ago, by these people, his people.

Dead anarchists make martyrs, you know, and keep living for centuries. But absent ones can be forgotten.