'...it was the nature of man and of creation, that some sound, long remembered from the days of innocence before the world's corruption, could open the door to the soul, flooding it with a sudden knowledge of the sadness and terror and beauty of man's home and the earth. But you could not keep such knowledge, you could not hold it in your hand like a flower or a book, for it came and went like the wind and the door of the soul would not say open, for maybe it was too great joy and sorrow for a man, and meant only for angels.'
Alan Paton, Too Late the Phalarope, p.40.
