“It is also true—and this is a curious paradox about
America—that these same men who stand upon the corner and wait around on Sunday
afternoons for nothing are filled at the same time with an almost quenchless
hope, an almost boundless optimism, an almost indestructible belief that
something is bound to turn up, something is sure to happen. This is a peculiar
quality of the American soul, and it contributes largely to the strange enigma
of our life, which is so incredibly mixed of harshness and of tenderness, of
innocence and of crime, of loneliness and of good fellowship, of desolation and
of exultant hope, of terror and of courage, of nameless fear and of soaring
conviction, of brutal, empty, naked, bleak, corrosive ugliness, and of beauty
so lovely and so overwhelming that the tongue is stopped by it, and the
language for it has not yet been uttered.”—American novelist Thomas Wolfe
(1900-1938),
You Can’t Go Home Again (1940)