To see him working on a digging was to see a man who had ceased to exist in the twentieth century, and who looked down on history like a golden eagle from some mountain peak.
History is composed of the smallest, often undetected mistakes.
Strange, the impact of History, the grip it had on us, yet it was nothing but words. Accidental accretions, for the most part, leaving most of the story out.
History repeating itself, though in a more modest vein. Perhaps history has learned a lesson.