Traveling Is Seeing; It Is The Implicit

A Writer Is Dreamed And Transfigured Into Being By Spells, Wishes, Goldfish, Silhouettes Of Trees, Boxes Of Fairy Tales Dropped In The Mud, Uncles' And Cousins' Books, Tablets And Capsules And Powders...and Then One Day You Find Yourself Leaning Here, Writing On That Round Glass Table Salvaged From The Park View Pharmacy--writing This, An Impossibility, A Summary Of Who You Came To Be Where You Are Now, And Where, God Knows, Is That?

Paradise Is Only For Those Who Have Already Been There.

One Reason Writers Write Is Out Of Revenge. Life Hurts; Certain Ideas And Experiences Hurt; One Wants To Clarify, To Set Out Illuminations, To Replay The Old Bad Scenes And Get The Treppenworte Said -- The Words One Didn't Have The Strength Or Ripeness To Say When Those Words Were Necessary For One's Dignity Or Survival.

Travelers Are Fantasists, Conjurers, Seers - And What They Finally Discover Is That Every Round Object Everywhere Is A Crystal Ball: Stone, Teapot, The Marvelous Globe Of The Human Eye.

In 1952, I Had Gone To England On A Literary Pilgrimage, But What I Also Saw, Even At That Distance From The Blitz, Were Bombed-out Ruins And An Enervated Society, While The Continent Was Still, Psychologically, In The Grip Of Its Recent Atrocities.