Thomas Wolfe
All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.
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Mathematicians are born, not made...Optimism doesn't wait on facts...My pride fell with my fortunes...A patriot must always be ready to defend his country...In archery we have something...A man may well be condemned...