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From Thomas Wolfe, you can't go home again.

George went to Pennsylvania station to catch his train.

The station, as he entered it, was

murmurous with the immense and distant sound of time. Great slant beams of moated light

felt ponderously athwart on the station's floor, and the calm voice of time hovered along

the walls and the ceiling of that mighty room,

distilled out of the voices and movements of the people who swarmed beneath. It had the

murmur of a distant sea, the languorous lapse and flow of waters on a beach. It was elemental,

detached, and indifferent to the lives of men. They contributed to it,

as drops of rain contribute to a river that draws its flood and movement majestically from great

depths out of purple hills at evening. Few buildings are vast enough to hold the sound of time, and now it seemed to George

that there was a superb fitness in the fact that the one who held it better than the others

should be a railroad station. For here, as no one else on earth, men were brought together

for a moment at the beginning or end of their

innumerable journeys.

Here one saw the greatness and farewells.

Here, in a single instant, one got the entire picture of human destiny.

Men came and went, they passed and vanished, and all were moving through the moments of

their lives to death

and made small tickings in the sound of time. But the voice of time remained aloof and unperturbed.

Each man and woman was full of his own journey. He had one way to go, one end to reach,

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