Roscuro sat on the dungeon floor. The whiskers on the left side of his face were gone. His heart was beating hard, and though the light from the match had disappeared, it danced, still, before the rat’s eyes, even when he closed them.
“Light,” he said aloug. And then he whispered the word again. ”Light.”
From that moment forward, Roscure showed an abnormal, inordinate interest in illumination of all sorts. He was always, in the darkness of the dungeon, on the lookout for light, the smallest glimmer, the tiniest shimmer. His rat soul longed inexplicably for it; he began to think light was the only thing that gave life meaning, and he despaired that there was so little of it to be had.
-The Tale of Despereaux, Chapter 16
Sigh. It seems that way here too sometimes, Roscuro.