It is a quiet and somewhat eerie start to the morning, as the petulant patter of rain echoes off the chimney cap. The sky has gone from pitch to gray as I sip my morning coffee and immerse myself in Stephen Crane's tale from years gone by. Indeed, the rain, the gray and the silence somehow add an unsettling dimension to the story as I follow along with the protagonist's battle of doubt, dishonor and disillusionment. It has been 30 years since I last turned these pages, and still I wonder (fear, really) whether the affliction of young Henry Fleming afflicts me as well.
Courage is of the moment, and perhaps of the circumstance. Wounds are of the nature of the weapons used to inflict them. Is the measure of a man's honor borne in the scars that he bears? Or are scars merely the marks of life, accorded honor only insofar as the bearer sees fit?
My coffee cup is empty, a void I must now remedy. And then, to return to the second half of the tale, and perhaps, to redemption.
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