[At this moment, when each of us must fit an arrow to his bow and enter the lists anew, to reconquer, within history and in spite of it, that which he owns already, the thin yield of his fields, the brief love of this earth, at this moment when at last a man is born, it is time to forsake our age and its adolescent furies. The bow bends; the wood complains.] At the moment of supreme tension, there will leap into flight an unswerving arrow, a shaft that is inflexible and free.


    — Albert Camus, from The Rebel

Posted by rallument
  










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