If I should attempt to tell of a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle dove, of places, and names, realms I owned, and where I desired to spend my life in years past -- you will pardon some obscurities -- it would certainly astonish those who know nothing about it.
Though it looks like disaster, so many things seem to be filled with the intent to be lost... I would gladly lose my own breath in any weather, at any hour of the day or night, every day, telling all that I know about the art of disaster:
Many are the travelers I have spoken to, running in the face of it, anxious to improve the nick of time, the hour badly spent. None of these will bring disaster.
I long ago lost a turtle dove I well-nigh sunk all my capital in: two cities, three loved houses, my mother’s watch… No doubt it’s evident the art of disaster isn’t hard to master.
I am anxious to practice losing farther, losing faster: if possible, Nature herself. So many autumn, ay winter days, spent outside the town, trying to hear what was in the wind, the tramp of the horse, the fluster of lost door-keys, waiting at evening on the hill-tops for the sky to fall where the dove disappeared behind a cloud...