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I went up my mountain in a fog, and then got above the mist; going higher and higher, I would look down upon a sea of whiteness, through which would be thrust innumerable mountain-tops that looked like islands. I am there now, as I write, I fancy that I can see the downs, the huts, the plain and the river-bed - that torrent pathway of desolation, with its distant roar of water, oh wonderful! Wonderful! So lonely, and so solemn, with the sad grey clouds above and no sounds save a lost lamb bleating upon the mountain-side, as though its little heart were breaking.

Erewhon, Samuel Butler

Post script: This excerpt was first read to me by my mother, who holds a talent few who I have met can claim to share. From her mouth this is not an excerpt, not a reading, not simply words on a page - but an experience. When she comes to the end she pauses and tries not to cry as she feels every ounce of lonelines that Samuel Butler is trying to convey. I know that she would do anything to take the imaginary lamb to her own breast and love it as her own. When Mother reads it, it makes me cry. When I read it, it is not Butler's voice nor my own I hear, but Mother's, and the lonliness, beauty and homesickness rises up and is so powerful, that I cry again.