There Are No Signposts In The Sea.

It Is A Sad Moment When The First Phlox Appears. It Is The Amber Light Indicating The End Of The Great Burst Of Early Summer And Suggesting That We Must Now Start Looking Forward To Autumn. Not That I Have Any Objection To Autumn As A Season, Full Of Its Own Beauty; But I Just Cannot Bear To See Another Summer Go, And I Recoil From What The First Hint Of Autumn Means.

A Letter, By Its Arrival, Defrauds Us Of A Whole Secret Region Of Our Existence, The Only Region Indeed In Which The True Pleasure Of Life May Be Tasted, The Region Of Imagination, Creative And Protean, The Clouds And Beautiful Shapes Of Whose Heaven Are Destroyed By The Wind Of Reality.

It Is No Good My Telling You. One Never Believes Other People's Experiencem And One Is Only Very Gradually Convinced By One's Own.

How Subtle Is The Relationship Between The Traveler And His Luggage! He Knows, As No One Else Knows, Its Idiosyncrasies, Its Contents ... And Always Some Small Nuisance Which He Wishes He Had Not Brought; Had Known, Indeed, Before Starting That He Would Regret It, But Brought It All The Same.

Serenity Of Spirit And Turbulence Of Action Should Make Up The Sum Of A Man's Life.