I only know that he was my little Alan — and then the devil came.
— Dora Strang
Alright, I take it away, what then? He'd feel himself acceptable, what then? Do you think feelings like his can be simply re-attached, just like plasters? Stuck on other objects we select? I mean, look at him! My desire might be to make of this boy an ardent husband, a caring citizen, a worshipper of abstract and unifying God; my achievement, however, is more likely to make a ghost. I'll heal the rash on his body, I'll erase the welts cut into his mind by flying manes, and when that's done I'll put him on a metal scooter and send him puttering off into the concrete world and he'll never touch hide again. Hopefully he'll feel nothing at his fork but approved flesh. I doubt, however, with much PASSION!Passion, you see, can be destroyed by a doctor. It cannot be created.
You won't gallop anymore, Alan, the horses will be quite safe. You can save your money each week and change that scooter for a car. You'll spend glorious weekends grooming that. You'll pop round to the betting shops and put fifty pence on a nag, forgetting they ever were anything more to you than bearers of little profits and little losses. You will, however, be without pain. Almost completely without pain... And now... for me... it never stops... the voice of Equus, out of the cave.