I'd seen the film, which was visually verbatim, hence a quick study.
I found myself much simpatico with the narrator, the Sheriff.
So too, as I survey my near environs, am feeling my age.
The "settled" West is of its essence controversial.
The matters concerning the suppression of the tribes...
the contrived consciousness that it's "really" all Mexico.
We old men have to reach for something reassuring.
When we break the laws, we lose our hold on the central reality. Like sick men in hospitals, we change only from bed to bed, from one folly to another; and it cannot signify much what becomes of such castaways, - wailing, stupid, comatose creatures, - lifted from bed to bed, from the nothing of life to the nothing of death.
In this kingdom of illusions we grope eagerly for stays and foundations. There is none but a strict and faithful dealing at home, and a severe barring out of all duplicity or illusion there. Whatever games are played with us, we must play no games with ourselves, but deal in our privacy with the last honesty and truth. I look upon the simple and childish virtues of veracity and honesty as the root of all that is sublime in character.
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