Literature
Meditations on Light
“Yes, I love the little ones,” Anselm said; and I was struck at once by his hushing, flutelike voice. “I would spend all day long with them if I could! As for being unhappy... never. You can’t be unhappy when you aren’t thinking of yourself, friend.”
“Do they tire you?”
“Now and then.” Anselm glanced away. “I should say I had failed if I didn’t give them my full effort, though. Every single day.”
“Well, but don’t you ever get angry? Just a little, even?”
“Angry? No, no. I do shudder when I see someone angry at a baby–and I have seen it, but never to good purpose. You must show them patience, above all. I had sooner grasp a rattlesnake’s tail than mistreat one of these.”
“And do you like young children more than you like grownups, Anselm?”
The boy stroked one of his dark curls contemplatively. “I dare say I do, now that you ask plainly. You see, grown people can be so haughty–especially those in royal courts like where I’m from. And they can be brutal in ways children seldom
