“Their destiny – hers, his, that of every descendant from the Cave – would be the same as the thistle the image of which obsessed Tolstoy, the same stubborn thistle he sought out in the Caucasian mountains. He was travelling in a scrap metal car along the muddy track to Shatoi and caught a glimpse, beneath them, of tanks and vehicles incinerated in an ambush similar to the one set for the Tsar’s soldiers a century and a half earlier. He witnessed once more history’s stupid repetitions, its obtuse cruelty.”
Book:Blind Rider
