Charles Frazier

Every piece of this is man's bullshit. They call this war "a cloud over the land" but they made the weather and then they stand in the rain and say "Shit, it's rainin'!"

Number one - shut this door, it's freezing. Number two - shut that door, it's freezing. I'm laying on my back, with my fingers poked in my ears trying to shut out who's got a bag of diamonds and who's carrying a tray. If you want to get three feet up a bull's ass, listen to what sweethearts whisper to each other. Now, if you're going to wimble wimble all night, I'm going to sleep in with him.

Every piece of this is man's bullshit. They call this war a cloud over the land. But they made the weather and then they stand in the rain and say 'Shit, it's raining!'

Just so you know - you're not eating inside. Number one: they hang people round here for taking in deserters. Number two: even if they gave out prizes you'd still eat outside.

We got our own story. Called Black Cove Farm: a catastrophe. I can spell it, too. Learned it the same place you did, in the school room. One of the first words they taught me. "Ruby Thewes, you are a c-a-t-a-s-t-r-o-p-h-e!"

Dear Mr. Inman, I began by counting the days, then the months. I don't count on anything anymore except the hope that you will return, and the silent fear that in the years since we saw each other, this war, this awful war, will have changed us both beyond all reckoning.

I can talk about farming in Latin. I can read French. I can lace up a corset, God knows. I can name the principal rivers in Europe, just don't ask me to name one stream in this county! I can embroider but I can't darn! I can arrange cut flowers but I can't grow them! If a thing has a function, if I might do something with it, then it wasn't considered suitable!

What we have lost will never be returned to us. The land will not heal - too much blood. All we can do is learn from the past and make peace with it.

What if you are killed and I'll never see you again? You said after a few years I would barely remember your name. Oh, Inman, it is more than three years, and I remember your name.

When I came with my father to the town of Cold Mountain, I was so shy of how I looked, so out of place. But did you know how happy I was to escape from Charleston, from a world of slaves and corsets and cotton?

I'm still waiting, as I promised I would. But I find myself alone and at the end of my wits - too embarrassed to keep taking from those who can least afford to give.

Since you've left, time has been measured out in bitter chapters. Last fall, my poor father died. Our farm at Black Cove is abandoned. Every house in these mountains touched by tragedy. Each day the dread of - learning who has fallen - who will not return from this terrible war. And no word from you. Are you alive?

After so long, I know I must learn to survive on my own and accept you will not return. And yet I cannot. I cannot.

Yesterday, I saw you walkin' back to me - or thought I did. I found myself crouching over Sally Swanger's well, like a madwoman staring into its secrets. Was it you I saw walking home to me or was it your ghost?

I looked once more down Sally's well, and this time there was nothin' there to haunt me. Just clouds. Clouds, and then... sun.