“But you climb,” said Fanny softly: Susan did not hear. “You are all cold with climbing....”
In the corner beside Statt, shadowed, sat a tall spare creature with a knot of hair on a high fanatical brow, and eyes that burned blue in the dark.
“Sing then!” said he. His name was Loyden. If he had another name, no one there knew it. “If you’re tired, sing. If you want to go up, sing. If you want to fall back, sing!”
“Boy, you are crazy,” said Mangel.
Loyden: I didn’t say I wasn’t. You aren’t logical. I said, sing! That has nothing to do with crazy or not crazy.
Fanny: But if we want to be sane—
Scome: We want to be too many things. Loyden’s right. We want the truth—and we’re afraid of being mad. There we are caught, again, half way—half way between what is really One.
Loyden: We’re not caught when we sing ... not when we dance—
Statt: You old scarecrow, what are you preaching about? Who ever heard your voice? Who ever saw you shake a leg?
Loyden: I have forgotten how to—without the Music.