“do it or do not do it—you will regret both

An inheritance, this undaunted joylessness, making grimness a job. Squareheads with blonde hair and silent troubles, where salt is a spice and boiled mushy fish an extravagant variation. No wonder, except accidentally born, no vivacity, except slipped loose from the cohort. Give me a wagon, a scythe, and a sod house, with four score and fifteen theses and four nails.

Store contents under pressure, proof for two hours, pummel with the heel of the hand, and while waiting, feast on this grimace-as-art

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Like what Europe did to its wolves, this place will do to your dreams. Let be be finale of seem, is something you might read before the flame flicks out in the wind that seeps into the floorboards and makes wisps of dust.

But take with a grain of salt and a thimbleful of whiskey as medicine. Nothing competes with the lack of acknowledgment and cankered observations from a sticker (in Stegner’s sense) who gets stuck and feels betrayed.