The Buried Giant

But then again I wonder if what we feel in our hearts today isn't like these raindrops still falling on us from the soaked leaves above, even though the sky itself long stopped raining. I'm wondering if without our memories, there's nothing for it but for our love to fade and die.

When it was too late for rescue, it was still early enough for revenge.

But God will know the slow tread of an old couple’s love for each other, and understand how black shadows make part of its whole.

Yet are you so certain, good mistress, you wish to be free of this mist? Is it not better some things remain hidden from our minds?" "It may be for some, father, but not for us. Axl and I wish to have again the happy moments we shared together. To be robbed of them is as if a thief came in the night and took what's most precious from us." "Yet the mist covers all memories, the bad as well as the good. Isn't that so, mistress?" "We'll have the bad ones come back too, even if they make us weep or shake with anger. For isn't it the life we've shared?

Who knows what will come when quick-tongued men make ancient grievances rhyme with fresh desire for land and conquest?

A couple may claim to be bonded by love, but we boatmen may see instead resentment, anger, even hatred. Or a great barrenness. Sometimes a fear of loneliness and nothing more.

How is it possible to hate so deeply for deeds not yet done?

Are you still there, Axl?” “Still here, princess.

What use is a god with boundless mercy, sir? You mock me as a pagan, yet the gods of my ancestors pronounce clearly their ways and punish severely when we break their laws. Your Christian god of mercy gives men licence to pursue their greed, their lust for land and blood, knowing a few prayers and a little penance will bring forgiveness and blessing.

The giant, once well buried, now stirs. When soon he rises, as surely he will, the friendly bonds between us will prove as knots young girls make with the stems of small flowers.

The danger isn't the river's speed, friend, but its slowness.

Boatman, I’ve spoken honestly to you, and I hope it doesn’t cast your earlier judgement of us in doubt. For I suppose there’s some would hear my words and think our love flawed and broken. But God will know the slow tread of an old couple’s love for each other, and understand how black shadows make part of its whole.

Abiding love that has endured the years—that we see only rarely. When we do, we’re only too glad to ferry the couple together.

Foolishness, sir. How can old wounds heal while maggots linger so richly? Or a peace hold for ever built on slaughter and a magician’s trickery?

When the hour’s too late for rescue, it’s still early enough for revenge.

Then he took the sword in both hands and raised it—and Gawain’s posture took on an unmistakable grandeur.

What kind of god is it, sir, wishes wrong to go forgotten and unpunished?

The stranger thought it might be God himself had forgotten much from our pasts, events far distant, events of the same day. And if a thing is not in God’s mind, then what chance of it remaining in those of mortal men?

Yet are you so certain, good mistress, you wish to be free of this mist? Is it not better some things remain hidden from our minds?

Be merciful and leave this place. Leave this country to rest in forgetfulness.

Some of you will have fine monuments by which the living may remember the evil done to you. Some of you will have only crude wooden crosses or painted rocks, while yet others of you must remain hidden in the shadows of history.

The giant, once well buried, now stirs. When soon he rises,

when travellers speak of their most cherished memories, it’s impossible for them to disguise the truth. A couple may claim to be bonded by love, but we boatmen may see instead resentment, anger, even hatred. Or a great barrenness. Sometimes a fear of loneliness and nothing more. Abiding love that has endured the years – that we see only rarely.

This country awakens so many memories, though each seems like some restless sparrow I know will flee any moment into the breeze.

Perhaps God’s so deeply ashamed of us, of something we did, that he’s wishing himself to forget.

Where once we fought for land and God, we now fought to avenge fallen comrades, themselves slaughtered in vengeance. Where could it end? Babes growing to men knowing only days of war.

It would be the saddest thing to me, princess. To walk separately from you, when the ground will let us go as we always did.