They all talked at once, their voices insistent and contradictory and impatient, making of unreality a possibility, then a probability, then an incontrovertible fact, as people will when their desires become words.

I discovered that my own little postage stamp of native soil was worth writing about and that I would never live long enough to exhaust it.

Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but that's the only way you can do anything really good.

Our freedom must be buttressed by a homogeny equally and unchallengeably free, no matter what color they are, so that all the other inimical forces everywhere -- systems political or religious or racial or national -- will not just respect us because we practice freedom, they will fear us because we do.

Let the past abolish the past when -- and if -- it can substitute something better.

So long as the deceit ran along quiet and monotonous, all of us let ourselves be deceived, abetting it unawares or maybe through cowardice.

Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar.