Her mind was an hotel where facts came and went like transient lodgers, without leaving their address behind, and frequently without paying for their board.

Why am I here? What’s my purpose in life?

But as she looked at his matted fur, his blood-soaked muzzle and chest, she couldn’t help but think: If this winter god, this walking rug, this one-eyed whining bear is the magical guardian of Russia, then Russia is going to have a very troubled future.

Suppose you were the last one left? Suppose you did that to yourself?

Written By Cormac McCarthy

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