Clear sky, invigorating breeze. In the distance, long rows of pine trees bowing to the sun. Nearby, stone buildings and wooden cabins casting off their shadows. The familiar sights and sounds of a provincial town awakening: pails drawn from the well, animals being led to the drinking trough. First gestures, first meals, first decisions. The daily miracle was renewed; earth once again was beginning to live. Oh yes, it was going to be a peaceful day, bearing offerings, the kind that reconcile man with his fate and even with that of his fellow-man. I was returning from the mikvah, where I had performed my ritual ablutions, and on my way to the House of Study to participate in the first morning service. I was sixteen years old and planned to change the world through prayer. I was hungry and thanked God for my hunger. I was tense and feverish, and I blessed God for that fever and that tension. I rediscovered my body, as I did every morning, and resented its coming between me and myself. I decided to treat my body with even greater severity; I would nourish it less, drive it harder.
