I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.

storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning, Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing, I tread day and night such roads.

But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.

Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?

Strange, (is it not?) that battles, martyrs, blood, even assassination should so condense - perhaps only really lastingly condense - a Nationality.

Judging from the main portions of the history of the world, so far, justice is always in jeopardy.

Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I can bear it.