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By Thomas Wolfe (1900-1938) / August 1, 1995

The voice of forest water in the night, a woman's laughter in the dark, the clean, hard rattle of raked gravel, the cricketing stitch of midday in hot meadows, the delicate web of children's voices in the bright air - these things will never change.

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* An excerpt from 'You can't go home again.'