Typical American

A man was the sum of his limits; freedom only made him see how much so.

One left; things shifted in one's absence; one returned to something else. Time frustrated all. There was no sneaking past its rough guard, even to get to one's own yard of intimacies.

Anything is possible. A man is what he makes up his mind to be.

He was like a nation in crisis, looking back, and back and back — its history might be ugly, but its past shone perfect.

Of course he bothers me. He's my husband.