In short, Beauty Smith was a monstrosity, and the blame of it lay elsewhere. He was not responsible. The clay of him had been moulded in the making.
The clay of White Fang had been molded until he became what he was, morose and lonely, unloving and ferocious, the enemy of all his kind.
I like having my hands in the clay. I like the movie-making process.
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Is it not a Shame–is it not a Shame for him So long in this Clay suburb to abide!