My New City [seattle] And Its Hinterland

Seattle Is Not An Overly Friendly City. It Is A Civil City, But Not Altogether Friendly. People From Outside Mistake The Civility For Friendliness. Seattle Is Full Of People Who Have Their Own Lives To Live. They Won't Waste Their Time Being Friendly. But They Are Civil.

The Only Real River I Knew Was Hardly More Than A Brook. It Spilled Through A Tumbledown Mill At The Bottom Of Our Road, Opened Into A Little Trouty Pool, Then Ran On Through Water Meadows Over Graveled Shallows Into Fakenham [england], Where It Slowed And Deepened, Gathering Strength For The Long Drifts Across Muddy Flatlands To Norwich And The North Sea.

There's An Enduring American Compulsion To Be On The Side Of The Angels. Expediency Alone Has Never Been An Adequate American Reason For Doing Anything. When Actions Are Judged, They Go Before The Bar Of God, Where Mom And The Flag Closely Flank His Presence.

The Falklands Held A Mirror Up To Our Own Islands, And It Reflected, In Brilliantly Sharp Focus, All Our Injured Belittlement, Our Sense Of Being Beleaguered, Neglected And Misunderstood.

All This Piling Up Of One Technology On Top Of Another-railroad On Steamboat, Interstate Highway On Railroad, Hydroelectric Dam On Watermill-had Reduced The Mississippi From A Wonder Of Nature To This Sluggish Canal On The Wrong Side Of The Tracks.