Martin was like an old song you'd hear at a fair. Somehow, without it, it wouldn't be a fair at all, just a place where people bought things and sold things, and then went home. Whereas some people could live by the Sunday sermon, Martin must live by the song. The Christ that Martin knew had turned water to wine, and wine was for drinking, and for Martin it worked. Since he could remember, there was no tomorrow that hadn't looked after itself.
-John Moriarty, A Hut at the Edge of the Village
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