Odd, Isn't It? He Really Was The

Journeys, Like Artists, Are Born And Not Made. A Thousand Differing Circumstances Contribute To Them, Few Of Them Willed Or Determined By The Will-whatever We May Think.

We Are The Children Of Our Landscape; It Dictates Behavior And Even Thought In The Measure To Which We Are Responsive To It.

Of Women, The Most We Can Say, Not Being Frenchmen, Is That They Are Burrowing Animals.

I Have Decided To Leave Clea’s Last Letter Un-answered. I No Longer Wish To Coerce Anyone, To Make Promises, To Think Of Life In Terms Of Compacts, Resolutions, Covenants. It Will Be Up To Clea To Interpret My Silence According To Her Own Needs And Desires, To Come To Me If She Has Need Or Not, As The Case May Be. Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?

I Don’t Believe One Reads To Escape Reality. A Person Reads To Confirm A Reality He Knows Is There, But Which He Has Not Experienced.