While most of Richard's tortured winter in Vermont is full of dangerous weather and unsuitable living conditions, he does not fail to notice the majesty of his surroundings. He uses vivid imagery to describe these surroundings and, in doing so, taps into a motif in which beauty and terror are inextricably linked:
I would then lean over the icy railing and drop it into the rapid current that bubbled over the speckled dinosaur eggs of granite which made up its bed—a gift to the river-god, maybe, for safe crossing, or perhaps some attempt to prove to it that I, though invisible, did exist. The water ran so shallow and clear in places that sometimes I heard the dropped stone click as it hit the bed. Both hands on the icy rail, staring down at the water as it dashed white against the boulders, boiled thinly over the polished stones, I wondered what it would be like to fall and break my head open on one of those bright rocks: a wicked crack, a sudden limpness, then veins of red marbling the glassy water.
Richard uses beautifully specific and full imagery to invoke the senses, with the click of the stones against the bed and the texture of the water as it dashes against different surfaces. These sensory descriptions bring the harsh but beautiful environment to life, drawing readers more fully into the setting. And as Richard paints this vivid picture ("veins of red marbling the glassy water"), readers begin to get the sense that he's especially capable of recognizing moments of beauty in otherwise brutal situations—a capacity that reemerges in the novel when Henry describes the transcendent experience of losing himself during the Dionysian ritual and committing a horrific act of violence.
To that end, the connection between beauty and horror forms a motif throughout the novel. Julian emphasizes this idea early on, telling his Greek students that "beauty is terror." He talks about how terrifying but beautiful it is to utterly lose control, which is exactly what Henry seems to experience on the night of the murder. This same terrifying loss of control is perhaps what Richard is thinking about when he imagines falling into the river—after all, this would be a sort of letting go, and though breaking his head open would be undoubtedly horrific, he seems to find some beauty in the idea when he imagines his own blood "marbling the glassy water."