All we can do is go around telling the truth.

I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.

There was hope in him, and soon perhaps the outline of his journey would take form.

They are the we of me.

It is a curious emotion, this certain homesickness I have in mind. With Americans, it is a national trait, as native to us as the roller-coaster or the jukebox. It is no simple longing for the home town or country of our birth. The emotion is Janus-faced: we are torn between a nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.

That was the best of all. To speak the truth and be attended.

His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.