I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter. - James A. Michener

This was rural Mexico, almost as impoverished and ignored as the worst of what I had seen when reporting on Haiti. It infuriated me to know that the Mexican political party that had run the nation for most of this century had called itself something like the People’s Revolutionary Party and had loudly preached social justice for all, winning election after election on that windy promise, but when installed, had proved itself to be a callous oligarchy. A small group of buddies had passed the presidency from one to another, each coming into office with modest means and leaving after six years with hundreds of millions, usually hidden in Swiss banks. The so-called revolutionaries stole the country blind, allowing or even forcing the peasants to sink deeper and deeper into abject poverty. Few nations had been ruled so cynically, which was why so many peasants wanted to escape to the good jobs, houses and food in the United States. I was not proud of what my country had accomplished during my lifetime.

She well remembered the terror she felt when seeing for the first time names like Przemysl and Rzeszow, and how she had turned to Wiktor for help. “Look at this,” she said petulantly, pointing to Przemysl. “How in the world do you pronounce it?” “Quite simple,” he said, repeating it several times. “Shemish.” “Now wait! You can’t tell me that with all those letters, it comes out Shemish.” “It does. You can hear for yourself. Shemish.” “What happens to the P at the beginning and the L at the end?” “In strict accuracy, it ought to be P’shemish’l, and if you listen with extra attention you may hear the muffled P and the final L. But mostly we just say Shemish.” He broke into laughter, and Marjorie thought he was ridiculing her. Not at all: “I was remembering how much trouble it gives the Austrian officers who speak only German. They go home to their families and announce proudly, ‘I’ve been appointed lieutenant commander of our big base at Przemysl,’ and however he pronounces it, that first time becomes the accepted name in that man’s family. Shemish he never says.” He laughed again. “How would you say it, Marjo?” “Per-zem-y-sil,” she said firmly, “just as God intended it to be pronounced.” “Never try to reason things out in Poland,” he said reassuringly. “Just accept it as Shemish,” but she resolved to avoid the word whenever possible.

Leonid Brezhnev needed a haircut, so he went down to the ground floor of the Kremlin and plopped into the chair. It was understood that at such times the barber was to say not a word, just cut hair. But this morning, after a few snips he said: "Comrade Brezhnev what are you going to do about Poland?" No reply. Some minutes later: "Comrade Brezhnev, what about Poland?" Again no reply. Then, pretty soon: "Comrade Brezhnev, you've got to do something about Poland." At this Brezhnev jumps out of the chair and tears away the cloth: "What's all this about Poland?" and the barber says: "It makes my job so much easier," and Brezhnev screams: "What do you mean?" and the barber says: "Every time I mention Poland your hair stands straight up on end."