Jack was hungover as he labored alongside Father, but was sobering up quickly by the sights and sounds of humdrum reality. The faint peal of church bells, like smelling salts, woke him fully to fresh ol’ hell. The distant mountains purple-gray, golden fields, every shade of green, all God’s majesty and yet the scene brought a pang of anxiety. The bells, those Sunday morning harbingers of desolation, singing hymns to Creation, and yet Jack saw only isolation in them hills. Those grim ranges a fence, hemmed him in, miles from significance. Scream as he might, though the stars could hear his howl, though the angels would scowl, though Zarathustra would weep just up the Road yonder, the hills echoed only the ding-dong bells of noon.