Não, as coisas não eram perfeitas. Eram humanas, no seu sentido mais… humano.

The things were the way they were, and you never stopped to question them. There were public schools and Catholic schools in your town, and because you were not Catholic, you attended the public schools, wich were considered to be good schools, at least by the standards that were used to measure such things at the time (…). You have nothing to compare your experience, but in the thirteen years you spent in that system (…) you had some good teachers and some mediocre teachers, a handful of exceptional and inspiring teachers and a handful of lousy and incompetent teachers, and your fellow students ranged from the brilliant to the average to the semi-moronic. Such is the case with all public schools. Everyone who lives in the district can go for free, and because you grew up in a time before the advent of special education, before separate schools hab been established to accommodate children with so-called problems, a number of your classmates werw physically handicapped. No one on a wheelchair, but you can still see the hunchbacked boy with the twisted body, the girl who was missing an arm (a sfingerless stump juntting from her shoulder), the drooling boy who slobbered down the front of his shirt, and the girl who was scarcely taller than a midget. Lookin back on it now, you feel that these people were an essential part of your education, that without their presence in your life your understanding of what it means to be human would have been impoverished, lacking all depth and compassion, all insight into the metaphysics of pain and adversity, for those children were the heroic ones, the ones who hat to work ten times harder than any of the others to find a place for themselves. (Paul Auster, Winter Journal, pp. 192-193)