The world of most men is given to them by their culture..
If a man confessed anything on his death bed, it was the truth; for no man could stare death in the face and lie.
I did not know if the story was factually true or not, but it was emotionally true [...].
He had lived and acted on the assumption that he was alone, and now he saw that he had not been. What he had done made others suffer. No matter how much he would long for them to forget him, they would not be able to. His family was a part of him, not only in blood, but in spirit.
I went to work, but the mood of the book would not die; it lingered, coloring everything I saw, heard, did. I now felt that I knew what the white man were feeling. Merely because I had read a book that had spoken of how they lived and thought, I identified myself with that book.