Henry Treece

But doctor, even you, a Hittite, saw what our Mycenaean shields were like! Oh, don__ smile, I may be an old woman, but I known what I am talking about, and if you will be patient, you will understand, too_ You do not see the wholeness of things, the Virtue, the arête. You observe one fact, the single symptom, like the Hittite doctor you are, but your eyes are blind to the Ananke, the whole Order of things which even the gods cannot infringe. The shield is formed on a frame, and that frame is the will of man. But after the sun and rain have been on it a week, its shape has changed beyond man__ guiding; and that is Ananke_ though I began upon a firm frame, the hide of my experience has tautened and twisted until now I am as Ananke will me to be. I am not what I wished, or others wished for me: I am what it was ordained for me to become ever the seed passed from my father to my mother. I am the cow__ hide, tormented to the only shape it can be. Now do you see? Do you see that there may be no anger, no regret, no remorse?