fuck

WWTN is more complicated with weird figurative language and words choice.
Every sentence is a further detail upon the prior sentence

Descriptive but simple.
Writes as if he's telling a story.
Simple vocab.
Lots of commas to preserve understandability.
Contrasts typical vs. atypical


11. Has Bragg's attempt to compensate for his mother's unhappy life contributed to his inability to settle down with someone? Is his avoidance of intimacy a legacy from his father or is it simply the syndrome of a successful and driven man who doesn't have time to attend to the emotional side of life?
12. Despite the revolution in American life that was brought about by the women's movement, the culture of the South is well known for its lingering devotion to ideals of chivalry. Does Rick Bragg raise his mother onto a pedestal? Does he risk turning her into a passive heroine who depends upon his help?
13. What, if any, are the definitive class barriers in our society? Does having been born poor mean that a person will always feel inferior to those who weren't? Do financial or professional achievements raise a person's "class" level? Is Bragg justified in his resentment of those who seem sophisticated or "elite" to him--the wealthy people of the South or people he meets at Harvard and at The New York Times?

I continued north, feeling a growing urge to sleep, but not really from exhaustion.  The thing that contributes most to the loneliness of flying in such empty country for hours on end is the absence of smoke on the horizon.  A spiral of smoke in the daytime is like a shaft of light at night.  It may be off your course to starboard or port, it may be no more that the poor smudge of a Masai campfire whose keepers are as unaware of you as they are of tomorrow’s worries, but it is a beacon nevertheless; it is a human sign, like a footprint or a matchstick found in the sand.
But, if there was no smoke to mark the site of a hearthstone or a camp, there were at least other signs of life, not human, but scarcely less welcome for that.



The truth is that, in so many ways, I am just like you.  The meanness you had in you, I used to get where I am.  But instead of spraying it out, like you did, I channeled it.  I used it every time I told some loving soul that I had to say good-bye because my work was more important to me than them, or just because it was time to move on.
I used your coldness, the same way I used my momma’s kindness, in my work.  Because of her, I could understand the pain and sadness of the people I wrote about, and could make others feel it.  But because of you I could turn my back on them when I was done and just walk away, free and clean.  Think about it.  What kind of man can do that, as much as I have, and live with himself?
Your hatred of responsibility, of ties, is in me just as strong as it was in you.  I have no home, no children, no desire for them.  I picked on responsibility, just one, and I met it.  But, any fool can meet just one responsibility.  Any lame idiot can set the bar so low, and clear it.
There have been a thousand nights when I would rather have been you, nights when I wanted nothing more in this world that to give up and drink myself into a good night’s sleep.  But that would have surely killed her, to see it.  It would have put her in her grave.  I do not know what will happen to me when she is gone, when the responsibility I picked up after you threw it down is fully met.  I might be very, very tired then.  The truth is that I can see myself wrapped around a bottle of bad likker for good company, that there are times when the very thought of that oblivion is so, so appealing.  Luck or not, it has not always been easy being the raggedy-ass boy made good, the one the smart people like to have around, sometimes, to hear my rustic witticisms.