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1 " harbored another, a secret conviction: that authenticity, whatever it was, resided somewhere else, somewhere that I was not. I’d know it when I saw it, I had even glimpsed it from afar in my travels, but it seemed to evaporate at my approach. Authenticity was out there beyond the vast fields of the Republic, eluding me, but I believed in it faithfully, a place, a magical coast, a holy mountain where folk of unsullied unself-consciousness labored at genuinely valid occupations and justified the race and the nation, where dwelt the thing itself, the McCoy. "
― Robert Stone , Prime Green: Remembering the Sixties