“We were restless for ages...After a while I heard an owl hooting and calmed myself by thinking of it flying over the dark fields – and then I remembered it would be pouncing on mice. I love owls, but I wish God had made them vegetarian.”

“The owl flies, in the moonlight, over a field where the wounded cry out. Like the owl, I fly in the night over my own misfortune.”

“If this were a made-up story, it would begin at night, with a storm blowing and owls hooting and rattling noises under the bed.”

“Owls visited them at night. Some thought the owls were witches. Some thought they were angels of death. Some thought they were holy and brought blessings. Some thought they were the restless spirits of the dead. The cowboys thought they were owls.”

“I love the night passionately. I love it as I love my country, or my mistress, with an instinctive, deep, and unshakeable love. I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness. Skylarks sing in the sunshine, the blue sky, the warm air, in the fresh morning light. The owl flies by night, a dark shadow passing through the darkness; he hoots his sinister, quivering hoot, as though he delights in the intoxicating black immensity of space. ”

“I call it Dante’s Syndrome,” John said. I had never heard him call it any such thing.“Meaning I think Dave and I gained the ability to peer into Hell. Only it turns out Hell is righthere, it’s all through us and around us and in us like the microbes that swarm through yourlungs and guts and veins. Hey, look! An owl!”We all looked. It was an owl, all right.”