He could not stay still for a minute; as long as he was busy he could ignore the demands of his soul, but if he had a few quiet minutes to himself he felt a fire consuming him, a fire so powerful he was sure it did not originate with him but had been fed by his tempestuous father and, before him, his grandfather the horse thief, and before that who knows how many great grandfathers branded with the same stigma of restlessness. It was his fate to roast on embers fanned by a thousand generations.
Isabel Allende
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