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For what is man’s soul but a flame. It flickers in and around the body of a man as does the flame around the rough log.
Now, one winter’s night, when the folk who sat around the fire had been silently gazing into the flames for a while, the fire began to speak to one and all, in their own language.
“Brother soul,” it would say to one, “are you not a log, too? Why are you so sad and heavy?”
“Sister flame,” would answer the human soul, “I have been chopping wood and minding the housework all day. I want nothing better than to sit still and watch you.”
“I know,” said the fire. “But, now it is evening, do as I do, shine and sparkle! Fun and warmth!”
And the souls obeyed the fire and began to play. They told stories, guessed riddles, they tuned the fiddles and hung garlands on the tools and implements. Then they sang songs, played forfeits, and recalled old proverbs, thus thawing the ice out of their limbs, the peevishness out of their minds. They woke up and were merry, for the fire renewed in their hearts the wish to live out their humble and difficult lives.
–Selma Lagerlöf, Kristuslegender (1904)
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“Shelby is waiting for something. He himself does not know what it is. When it comes he will either go back into the world from which he came, or sink out of sight in the morass of alcoholism or despair that has engulfed other vagrants.”