As An American I Am Of Course

Our Quilts Were More Than Useful, They Had The Faint Sentimentality Of A Pressed Flower. And No More Beauty. We Did Not Value Them For Their Appearance, But For The Memories In Them, For Their Good Wearing Qualities And The Thrift They Represented.

Making The Best Of Things Is A Damn Poor Way Of Dealing With Them. My Life Has Been A Series Of Escapes From That Quicksand.

The Prairies Were Dust. Day After Day, Summer After Summer, The Scorching Winds Blew The Dust And The Sun Was Brassy In A Yellow Sky. Crop After Crop Failed. Again And Again The Barren Land Must Be Mortgaged For Taxes And Food And Next Year's Seed. The Agony Of Hope Ended When There Was Not Harvest And No More Credit, No Money To Pay Interest And Taxes; The Banker Took The Land. Then The Bank Failed.

An Old World Revolution Is Only A Movement Around A Motionless Center; It Never Breaks Out Of The Circle. Firm In The Center Is Belief In Authority.

The Question Is Whether Personal Freedom Is Worth The Terrible Effort, The Never-lifted Burden And Risks Of Self-reliance.