"I stood there, saying nothing. Hating him. Dawes. Thinking. Only: Yes, and he is not the only one who is mad in their way. I, too, am mad in my way. We are all, just standing here, mad in our ways. But it is only HE who is wanting terribly to make us see it, to act it out. For some reason. To make us look at it for hours on end. Without mercy or forgetting. Yes, it is I, Handsaw Williams, who is even better than Dawes, finer and better and madder in every way. More than Dawes. But who will tell him? And finally it will only be HE, the only one, who will make it out of himself someday. HE, not I, who will have the obtuse nerve to make it into something finer than himself. Someday. Someday he will compose a great lie. And call it himself. The possibility of himself. Not I. He is the only one. Something finer than himself. The Bastard. Not me. Only him. Dawes. Who is not even aware of it. Of himself. Of that thin stone of ever-woken seed. Who is not me, but only himself, Dawes. Who is not in me, but in only himself. Selfish. Mindless. Fool. . . He will make it out of himself someday."