The Mestizo Quotes in The Power and the Glory
How often the priest had heard the same confession—Man was so limited: he hadn't even the ingenuity to invent a new vice: the animals knew as much. It was for this world that Christ had died: the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater glory lay around the death; it was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civilization—it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt.
The half-caste was calling after him: “Call yourself a Christian.” He had somehow managed to get himself upright. He began to shout abuse—a meaningless series of indecent words which petered out in the forest like the weak blows of a hammer. He whispered: “If I see you again, you can't blame me…” Of course, he had every reason to be angry: he had lost seven hundred pesos. He shrieked hopelessly: “I don't forget a face.”
He could hear the half-caste panting after him: his wind was bad: they had probably let him have far too much beer in the capital, and the priest thought, with an odd touch of contemptuous affection, of how much had happened to them both since that first encounter in a village of which he didn't even know the name: the half-caste lying there in the hot noonday rocking his hammock with one naked yellow toe. If he had been asleep at that moment, this wouldn't have happened. It was really shocking bad luck for the poor devil that he was to be burdened with a sin of such magnitude.
The Mestizo Quotes in The Power and the Glory
How often the priest had heard the same confession—Man was so limited: he hadn't even the ingenuity to invent a new vice: the animals knew as much. It was for this world that Christ had died: the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater glory lay around the death; it was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civilization—it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt.
The half-caste was calling after him: “Call yourself a Christian.” He had somehow managed to get himself upright. He began to shout abuse—a meaningless series of indecent words which petered out in the forest like the weak blows of a hammer. He whispered: “If I see you again, you can't blame me…” Of course, he had every reason to be angry: he had lost seven hundred pesos. He shrieked hopelessly: “I don't forget a face.”
He could hear the half-caste panting after him: his wind was bad: they had probably let him have far too much beer in the capital, and the priest thought, with an odd touch of contemptuous affection, of how much had happened to them both since that first encounter in a village of which he didn't even know the name: the half-caste lying there in the hot noonday rocking his hammock with one naked yellow toe. If he had been asleep at that moment, this wouldn't have happened. It was really shocking bad luck for the poor devil that he was to be burdened with a sin of such magnitude.
