The story of his great-grandfather . . . was his own story, too.

I didn't find my story; it found me, as autobiography always does: finds you out in your deepest most private places.

There is a wicked and pervading arrogance loose on the earth, like a rabid beast, an overdog. Does it run, does it slouch, does its name have a number? The beast preaches contempt, for that's what arrogance says: that nothing is real but itself, and the bone and blood of another's being are insubstantial as breath.