Several years ago on a clear winter day, I visited the Andersonville Confederate prison, and as I walked freely over the haunted ground that once confined over thirty-thousand men, I was overcome by a vision of our state as human beings. Andersonville was a pit of disease, starvation, and hopelessness. Only the stench was free…

Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made. Ask me whether what I have done is my life. Others have come in their slow way into my thought, and some have tried to help or to hurt: ask me what difference their strongest love or hate has made. I will…