WOLFE WROTE...

    "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 like a window on all time."

      "Through chance, we are each a ghost to all the others, and our only reality; through chance, a huge hinge of the world, and a grain of dust; a stone that starts an avalance, the pebble whose concentric circles widen across the seas."

        "The commoness of all things in the earth he remembered with a strange familiarity-  he dreamed of the quiet roads, the moonlit woodlands, and he thought that someday he would go to them on foot, and find them there in all the wonder of recognition they had existed in him anciently and forever."

            "A stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces. Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth. Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone? O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When? O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again."