That would be Thomas Wolfe, dead way too soon at age 38 right before the Great War broke out.
Something has spoken to me in the night, burning the tapers of the waning year; something has spoken in the night, and told me I shall die, I know not where.To lose the earth you know, for greater knowing; to lose the life you have for greater life; to leave the friends you loved, for greater loving; to find a land more kind than home, more large than earth.
Whereon the pillars of this earth are founded, toward which the conscience of the world is tending — a wind is rising, and the rivers flow.
Thomas Wolfe, You Can’t Go Home Again (1939).
I am really thinking that I need to get into this guy. Faulkner said Wolfe was the greatest writer of his generation. His reputation has waned somewhat in recent days – the general conclusion is that his novels were overwritten, way too long and could have been written in half the size – but he retains legions of devoted followers. There is even a Thomas Wolfe Journal out there that publishes regularly.
