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“Exactly! Accidentalism, little monk, is the reason accidents happen. I’m sorry you lost the birds, mistook their coincidental passing for a cosmic bond, asked a heretical question, and had stones hucked at your head. But I’m also not sorry, because there’s nothing to be sorry about. I would sooner get mad at a pebble that rolls down a winding mountain trail, right under my yak’s hoof. The pebble could never have stopped itself.”

He told me to say, “See, Little Monkey? See? How else could all those rocks miss you, if not for a twist of complete random chance? You must become a man of accidentalism.”

I told him you could only become a boy of accidentalism.

For the philosophic theories relating to this subject see Accidentalism.

The way in which they contrasted and harmonised with each other was too studied for English traditions, which, in all circumstances, cling to something of the impromptu, an air of accidentalism.