“Rodwell wandered into No Man's Land and put a bullet through his ears. On Sunday, Robert sat on his bed in the… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“When Mrs Ross asked him what he was thinking of, he shrugged. But he was thinking of the time he'd climbed the… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“The mud. There are no good similes. Mud must be a Flemish word. Mud was invented here. Mudland must have been its… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“Here was an unknown quantity-a child in breeches with a blue scarf wound around his neck whose job it was to get… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“1915. The year itself looks sepia and soiled-muddied like its pictures. In the snapshots everyone at first seems timid-lost-irresolute. Boys and men… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“Houses, trees and fields of flax once flourished here. Summers had been blue with flowers. Now it was a shallow sea of… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“Master Stuart made his letters into paper darts and launched them page by page from the roof of the house-watching them descend… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“...no one belongs to anyone. We're all cut off at birth with a knife and left at the mercy of strangers. You… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
