He is a striking-looking man, tall and lean, whose aristocratic cheekbones
and purposeful gait suggest a fortunate inheritance and a promising future,
a man with expectations, going places. Up close he is someone else entirely:
an unshaven hungry look, expensive shoes scuffed, tailored slacks stained,
a fine leather-trimmed Atlanta baseball jacket torn down the back, its terminal
"s" ripped away from Braves scripted there. And so,
because he won't even look at me when I say hello or ask his name, I think
of him as Brave.
Reilly BM. Brave, Waiting for Pasteur. JAMA. 2001;286(1):19–20. doi:10.1001/jama.286.1.19
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