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320 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1989
. . . I’ve never been forced to hate my homeplace, as many of my writing friends came to do. Their inability to live near their homes in a racially divided region compelled them to sever the feeder-roots of their work, with tragic results – their work underwent the slow death of cut flowers. Whatever my staying cost me in immediate pleasure and international glamor was offset, for me, by the chance to stay in a place that I knew like my hand and to watch it slowly till I’d seen it move and change through decades.
Except for the four years in England, I’ve never lived outside North Carolina, the state that sent more men to the Confederate Army than any other. Unlike a number of Southern writers in my generation, I never felt driven out of my region, whatever its wrongs. Despite the heat of close-up witness, I’m more than glad the chances and temperament let me stay. I monitored the civil rights movement with passionate sympathy from the first sit-in, which occurred just down the highway from here, at the Greensboro Woolworth’s from which I bought my boyhood tin soldiers. And I sat through hours of the impotent rant of kin, even loved ones – sad but useful hours in which I learned a lot about ignorance and all its links with fear and hope.