for it (wondelone) but no one in his senses
could long for it (hluntheline).
'And indeed,' he continued, 'the poem is a good example. For the most splendid line becomes
fully splendid only by means of all the lines after it; if you went back to it you would
find it less splendid than you thought. You would kill it. I mean in a good poem.'
'But in a bent poem, Hyoi?'
'A bent poem is not listened to, Hman.'
'And how of love in a bent life?'
'How could the life of a hnau be bent?'
'Do you say, Hyoi, that there are no bent hrossa?'
Hyoi reflected. 'I have heard,' he said at last, 'of something like what you mean. It is
said that sometimes here and there a cub at a certain age gets strange twists in him. I have
heard of one that wanted to eat earth; there might, perhaps, be somewhere a hross likewise
that wanted to have the years of love prolonged. I have not heard of it, but it might be.
I have heard of something stranger. There is a poem about a hross who lived long ago, in
another handramit, who saw things all made two - two suns in the sky, two heads on a neck;
and last of all they say that he fell into such a frenzy that he desired two mates. I do
not ask you to believe it, but that is the story: that he loved two hressni.'
Ransom pondered this. Here, unless Hyoi was deceiving him, was a species naturally continent,
naturally monogamous. And yet, was it so strange? Some animals, he knew, had regular breeding
seasons; and if nature could perform the miracle of turning the sexual impulse outward at all,
why could she not go further and fix it, not morally but instinctively, to a single object?
He even remembered dimly having heard that some terrestrial animals, some of the 'lower'
animals, were naturally monogamous. Among the hrossa, anyway, it was obvious that unlimited
breeding and promiscuity were as rare as the rarest perversions. At last it dawned upon him
that it was not they, but his own species, that were the puzzle. That the hrossa should have
such instincts was mildly surprising; but how came it that the instincts of the hrossa so
closely resembled the unattained ideals of that far-divided species Man whose instincts were
so deplorably different? What was the history of Man? But Hyoi was speaking again.
'Undoubtedly,' he said. 'Maleldil made us so. How could there ever be enough to eat if everyone
had twenty young? And how could we endure to live and let time pass if we were always crying
for one day or one year to come back - if we did not know that every day in a life fills the
whole life with expectation and memory and that these are that day?'
'All the same,' said Ransom, unconsciously nettled on behalf of his own world, 'Maleldil
has let in the hnahra.'
'Oh, but that is so different. I long to kill this hnakra as he also longs to kill me. I
hope that my ship will be the first and I first in my ship with my straight spear when the
black jaws snap. And if he kills me, my people will mourn and my brothers will desire still
more to kill him. But they will not wish that there were no hneraki; nor do I. How can I
make you understand, when you do not understand the poets? The hnakra is our enemy, but he
is also our beloved. We feel in our hearts his joy as he looks down from the mountain of
water in the north where he was born; we leap with him when he jumps the falls; and when
winter comes, and the lake smokes higher than our heads, it is with his eyes that we see
it and know that his roaming time is come. We hang images of him in our houses, and the
sign of all the hrossa is a hnakra. In him the spirit of the valley lives; and our young
play at being hneraki as soon as they can splash in the shallows.'
'And then he kills them?'
'Not often them. The hrossa would be bent hrossa if they let him get so near. Long before
he had come down so far we should have sought him out. No, Hman, it is not a few deaths
roving the world around him that make a hnau miserable. It is a bent
could long for it (hluntheline).
'And indeed,' he continued, 'the poem is a good example. For the most splendid line becomes
fully splendid only by means of all the lines after it; if you went back to it you would
find it less splendid than you thought. You would kill it. I mean in a good poem.'
'But in a bent poem, Hyoi?'
'A bent poem is not listened to, Hman.'
'And how of love in a bent life?'
'How could the life of a hnau be bent?'
'Do you say, Hyoi, that there are no bent hrossa?'
Hyoi reflected. 'I have heard,' he said at last, 'of something like what you mean. It is
said that sometimes here and there a cub at a certain age gets strange twists in him. I have
heard of one that wanted to eat earth; there might, perhaps, be somewhere a hross likewise
that wanted to have the years of love prolonged. I have not heard of it, but it might be.
I have heard of something stranger. There is a poem about a hross who lived long ago, in
another handramit, who saw things all made two - two suns in the sky, two heads on a neck;
and last of all they say that he fell into such a frenzy that he desired two mates. I do
not ask you to believe it, but that is the story: that he loved two hressni.'
Ransom pondered this. Here, unless Hyoi was deceiving him, was a species naturally continent,
naturally monogamous. And yet, was it so strange? Some animals, he knew, had regular breeding
seasons; and if nature could perform the miracle of turning the sexual impulse outward at all,
why could she not go further and fix it, not morally but instinctively, to a single object?
He even remembered dimly having heard that some terrestrial animals, some of the 'lower'
animals, were naturally monogamous. Among the hrossa, anyway, it was obvious that unlimited
breeding and promiscuity were as rare as the rarest perversions. At last it dawned upon him
that it was not they, but his own species, that were the puzzle. That the hrossa should have
such instincts was mildly surprising; but how came it that the instincts of the hrossa so
closely resembled the unattained ideals of that far-divided species Man whose instincts were
so deplorably different? What was the history of Man? But Hyoi was speaking again.
'Undoubtedly,' he said. 'Maleldil made us so. How could there ever be enough to eat if everyone
had twenty young? And how could we endure to live and let time pass if we were always crying
for one day or one year to come back - if we did not know that every day in a life fills the
whole life with expectation and memory and that these are that day?'
'All the same,' said Ransom, unconsciously nettled on behalf of his own world, 'Maleldil
has let in the hnahra.'
'Oh, but that is so different. I long to kill this hnakra as he also longs to kill me. I
hope that my ship will be the first and I first in my ship with my straight spear when the
black jaws snap. And if he kills me, my people will mourn and my brothers will desire still
more to kill him. But they will not wish that there were no hneraki; nor do I. How can I
make you understand, when you do not understand the poets? The hnakra is our enemy, but he
is also our beloved. We feel in our hearts his joy as he looks down from the mountain of
water in the north where he was born; we leap with him when he jumps the falls; and when
winter comes, and the lake smokes higher than our heads, it is with his eyes that we see
it and know that his roaming time is come. We hang images of him in our houses, and the
sign of all the hrossa is a hnakra. In him the spirit of the valley lives; and our young
play at being hneraki as soon as they can splash in the shallows.'
'And then he kills them?'
'Not often them. The hrossa would be bent hrossa if they let him get so near. Long before
he had come down so far we should have sought him out. No, Hman, it is not a few deaths
roving the world around him that make a hnau miserable. It is a bent
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