Perhaps it was only that when you try to put it into words you cannot express it truly, it never sounds as you dream it.

If men were equal in America, all these Poles and English and Czechs and blacks, then they were equal everywhere, and there was really no such thing as foreigner; there were only free men and slaves.

Home. One place is just like another, really. Maybe not. But truth is it's all just rock and dirt and people are roughly the same. I was born up there but I'm no stranger here. Have always felt at home everywhere, even in Virginia, where they hate me. Everywhere you go there's nothing but the same rock and dirt and houses and people and deer and birds. They give it all names, but I'm at home everywhere. Odd thing: unpatriotic. I was at home in England. I would be at home in the desert. In Afghanistan or far Typee. All mine, it all belongs to me. My world.

Why do there have to be men like that, men who enjoy another man's dying?

Southern women like their men religious and a little mad.

It rained all that night. The next day was Saturday, the Fourth of July.

The thing about the heart was that you could not coax it or force it, as you could any other disease. Will power meant nothing.