Dean R Koontz
The third book in the Odd Thomas series
To some folks I've known a long time and admire because they do good work and are good people: Peter Styles, Richard Boukes, Bill Anderson (Hello, Danielle), Dave Gaulke, and Tom Fenner (Hello, Gabriella, Katia, and Troy).
We'll have a fine party on the Other Side, but let's not be in a hurry.
To give and not to count the cost;
To fight and not to heed the wounds;
To toil and not to seek for rest…
St. Ignatius Loyola
EMBRACED BY STONE, STEEPED IN SILENCE, I SAT at the high window as the third day of the week surrendered to the fourth. The river of night rolled on, indifferent to the calendar.
I hoped to witness that magical moment when the snow began to fall in earnest. Earlier the sky had shed a few flakes, then nothing more. The pending storm would not be rushed.
The room was illuminated only by a fat candle in an amber glass on the corner desk. Each time a draft found the flame, melting light buttered the limestone walls and waves of fluid shadows oiled the corners.
Most nights, I find lamplight too bright. And when I'm writing, the only glow is the computer screen, dialed down to gray text on a navy-blue field.
Without a silvering of light, the window did not reflect my face. I had a clear view of the night beyond the panes.
Living in a monastery, even as a guest rather than as a monk, you have more opportunities than you might have elsewhere to see the world as it is, instead of through the shadow that you cast upon it.
St. Bartholomew's Abbey was surrounded by the vastness of the Sierra Nevada, on the California side of the border. The primeval forests that clothed the rising slopes were themselves cloaked in darkness.