"A destiny that leads the English to the Dutch is strange enough; but one that leads from Epsom into Pennsylvania, and thence into

the hills that shut in Altamont over the proud coral cry of the cock, and the soft stone smile of an angel, is touched by that dark

miracle of chance which makes new magic in a dusty world. Each of us is all the sums he has not counted: subtract us into

nakedness and night again, and you shall see begin in Crete four thousand years ago the love that ended yesterday in Texas.

The seed of our destruction will blossom in the desert, the alexin of our cure grows by a mountain rock, and our lives are haunted by

a Georgia slattern, because a London cut-purse went unhung.  Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years.  The minute-winning

days, like flies, buzz home to death, and every moment is a window on all time."

Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe