"'This magazine says we're kicking shit out of 'em. But now,' Hanson said, tapping the open magazine, 'what about the home front? They've got problems too. Take this young guy, a "Cornell Senior" it says here, "I'm nervous as hell. I finally decide on a field--economics--and then I find out I'm number fifty-nine in the draft lottery." Rough, huh? Just when he decided on economics.'
Hanson thumbed through the magazine, singing softly, '. . . My candy man, he's come an' gone. Mah candy man, he's come an' gone. An' I love ever'thing in this godomighty world, God knows I do . . .'
To the west a heavy machine gun was firing, the distant pounding as monotonous as an assembly-line machine. Artillery was going in up north. Three guns working out. They were good, the rounds going in one on top of the other, each explosion like a quick violent wind, the sound your firestarter makes when you touch off the backyard charcoal grill. Normal night sounds."
— Kent Anderson, Sympathy for the Devil