“Not all men” I say, “there is but one who is purely good.” But which man am I referring to? In Iceland, deep in the woods and the snow, there lives a lad raised by wolves who feasts upon sunbeams and loves all of nature, unburdened by man’s sins. Tenderly, he strokes a hungry squirrel, sharing with her the last acorns of the autumn harvest. A tear rolls down his cheek. Who is he

Spiders Georg 

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