I believed him capable of uprooting from his heart, though it might be with agony, so that he was left battered and ensanguined
, anything that came between himself and that uncomprehended craving that urged him constantly to he knew not what.
He tore the golden brooches that upheld Her queenly robes, upraised them high and smote Full on his eye-balls, uttering words like these: "No more shall ye behold such sights of woe, Deeds I have suffered and myself have wrought; Henceforward quenched in darkness shall ye see Those ye should ne'er have seen; now blind to those Whom, when I saw, I vainly yearned to know." Such was the burden of his moan, whereto, Not once but oft, he struck with his hand uplift His eyes, and at each stroke the ensanguined
orbs Bedewed his beard, not oozing drop by drop, But one black gory downpour, thick as hail.
After exhausting all the resources of fraud and falsehood, during years upon years; after exhibiting a combination of dastardly meanness with ensanguined
daring, such as the world has not often witnessed; you have now the hypocrisy to bend the knee before the most degraded of mankind, and to sue and whine and howl for mercy!' Whereat the unfortunate Minor Canon would look, in part indignant and in part perplexed; while his worthy mother sat bridling, with tears in her eyes, and the remainder of the party lapsed into a sort of gelatinous state, in which there was no flavour or solidity, and very little resistance.
It was his fate to meet the enemy often, and as often did "he pluck honour from the pale- fac'd moon." He fought at Chippewa--bled at the side of the gallant Lawrence-and nearly laid down his life on the ensanguined
plains of Marengo.
"This 'ere is like a bloomin' gallantry-show!" For the rest of the day he was dumb, but achieved an ensanguined
filthiness through the cleaning of big fish.
Like the painter who turns to collage for a more immediate replica of life, and in desperation glues or rivets on his canvas sand, iron, fur, flowers, bits of string, or fragments of newsprint proclaiming the world's catastrophes of its trivialities, Kazantzakis longed to glue on the blank pages of his despair sections from his own flesh, bits of his skin and bone, splinters from his fingernails, all ensanguined
and smeared with his life's blood.