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Sign in with Facebook Sign in options. Join Goodreads. Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Regain Quotes Showing of The sun fell behind the hills. A few drops of blood splashed the sky. Night washed them out with her grey hand. Even the wind was silent, but not really dead.
It waved about a little and beat its tail gently against the hard sky. There was no sun yet. The sky was empty. It was all frozen up, like a sheet hanging out in the frost. There stood the cypress too, and, as if on purpose, it was singing with its tree-voice, its sweet-sounding voice, inviting to the ear.
Then there were bees which had lived under a tile and were humming in the air. And then, like a miracle, so unexpected that it made them rub their eyes, there was a small lilac tree in full blossom.
The young sun made his way, knee-deep in the grass. The wind scattered the dew like a lively colt. It sent up flights of birds which swam for a while among the waves of the sky, as if drunk and dizzy from screaming, and then suddenly dropped, like handfuls of stones. He went on like that, for no purpose, just for the sound, to hear the sound.
His life was in each of those strokes. The sound of the anvil echoed through the countryside and sometimes came upon Panturle while he was hunting. It was true that only three persons remained there. A grassless slope went down from the village. Almost at the bottom, there was a patch of soft earth and the wiry hair of a stunted osier bed. Below was a narrow valley with a little water. He looked like a piece of wood walking along.
He felt all white and full of new life. He walked the earth with a clean heart. She passed her left hand across the night to feel the man's firm wrist, which was against her right hand. It was all knotted like a gnarled branch. It filled her left hand with warm flesh which was supple and finely nerved. They all have their women.
Such a passion has seized the earth She was thin as a cypress and nearly as tall. They were used to big, open fields, slowly living their own life beside them. There, they were cemented, flesh to flesh, knowing in advance what the other was thinking about, knowing the word before it had left the mouth, knowing it even when it was still being formed with difficulty deep down in the breast.
Here, the noise had cut them apart like a knife, and they had needed to touch each other by the arm or hand all day long to satisfy their hearts a little. It was all bearded with dirty grasses and was grumbling, for the rains had filled it with water. So it complained. It complained of being too fat. It was never satisfied. In summer it spent its time moaning that it was going to die, and then Streams were always like that. He was all wrapped up in his joy.
He was filled with songs, packed in his throat and pressing against his teeth. He puckered up his lips. It was a joy of which he wanted to savour all the smell and taste the juice as long as possible, like a sheep eating grass in the evening among the hills. He went on like that, until the beautiful silence had settled within him and around him, like a meadow. Welcome back. Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account.
Jean Giono: Regain (Harvest; later: Second Harvest)
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