The one or two broad simple concerns of Jack’s early life, like the light and dark portions of a wootz -ingot, had been hammered out and folded over, hammered out and folded over, so many times that they had become involved and inter-tangled into a swirl of swirls, something too intricate to follow, or to be given the name of "pattern" or "design." It registered on the mind as a blunt impression that could be talked about only by smearing it into some gray word like "complicated." But he would tell Jimmy and Danny and Tomba that it was complicated, and they would not have the faintest understanding of what he meant. Jack could only pray that its complexity gave it the strength and keenness of a watered-steel blade. Much later he might be able to discern whether there was beauty in it, too.