He is violent by nature, and like nature he hibernates for a time, until roused; but once roused he means to devour –even his own Cubs will he eat– and not for satiation, no, and not for the sating of anger, nor vengeance, but for the simple, inestimably violent lack of reason that is its own blind calculus, a self-appointed king beyond our reproach. Violence is in him; he is its manifest and prepared feast, and was made by violence for its own needy sake –even for our interest. Violence is a king, a bear, a twisted knife without conscience. And you, and I, we are the morning dew.