The real 1960s began on the afternoon of November 22, 1963. It came to seem that Kennedy's murder opened some malign trap door in American culture, and the wild bats flapped out.

As they marched, the crowds lining the route broke into applause, a sweet and deeply felt spontaneous pattering that was a sort of communal embrace. Welcome home.

The Church became both more accessible and less imposing. It threw itself open to risk.

Handwriting is civilization's casual encephalogram.

Religious hatreds tend to be merciless and absolute.

Everywhere you hang your hat is home. Home is the bright cave under the hat.

As American productivity, once the exuberant engine of national wealth, has dipped to an embarrassingly uncompetitive low, Americans have shaken their heads: the country's old work ethic is dead.