ness, you offered your hand to him, and he snared your wrist with his big brawling fingers, ugly and twisted. Within his Anger, invulnerable, stronger than will, you were imprisoned. Refusing to let go, he kicked, whipped, cajoled, whispered dire necessities into your ears. The language of such hate is fluid, even reasonable, but above all, unceasing. His goal was to shape you into his instrument. Justice is relentless; it must burn for gener-ations through you, with your unearthly eyes and sad, skidding breaths. Many times he ripped your heart out and fondled it for a period, his cradling hands shaking with its every beat, and then to demon-strate his munificence, his complete mastery, he returned it. The floor of your cell is stained with blood, like rubies congealed. Years have passed, kingdoms fallen. Perhaps the object of the man's enmity has also fallen, but he is intent on breaking you, and Lin Page 12 damn life spans, your obstinacy, any doubts, distractions. Still, you have come to recognize that his unwavering faith is his weakness. For him, it is only a matter of convincing you, sickening your soul, stoking the fever, and then you and he will be one with purpose, the world will shudder. So gradually, with an artist's sensitivity, you have dropped words: What to maybe to I see to I understand. Your head has nodded at appropriate moments. And finally this day has come, his orders: Revenge. The wrong-doers (always it is distilled to a person or persons) will suffer. So he releases his grip on you with a smug wave of the hand and urges you forward, his instrument, his deliverance. You require moments to clear your captivity from your mind -- a mammoth struggle, for with you, millennia are reducible to single instants, like a painter who creates the most beautiful butterfly ever seen with one brush-stroke. You grab him