The difference between bad and worse is a lot bigger than the difference between good and better. - Harry Turtledove

You know what I mean. Is it true the folk hereabouts” — he pointed to the land ahead — “are cripples? Missing half their hindquarters?”
“The fauns? Cripples?” I laughed. “By the gods who made them, no!

(a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?).

Except when Yankees are around,” Moss said. “Then they’ll swear up and down that they didn’t know what was going on. Some prick will probably write a book that shows how they didn’t really massacre their Negroes after all.” “Oh, yeah? Then where’d the smokes go?” Goodman asked. “I mean, they were there before the war, and then they weren’t. So what happened?” “Well, we killed a bunch of ’em when we bombed Confederate cities.” Moss was a well-trained attorney; he could spin out an argument whether he believed in it or not. “Some died in the rebellion. Some went up to the USA. Some died of hunger and disease — there was a war on, you know. But a massacre? Nah. Never happened.” Barry Goodman’s mouth twisted. “That’s disgusting. That’d gag a maggot, damned if it wouldn’t.” “Bet your ass,” Moss said. “You think it won’t happen, though? Give it twenty years — thirty at the outside.” “Disgusting,