We Learn From History As Much As

No Matter Whether One Is Flying Over Newfoundland Or The Sea Of Lights That Stretches From Boston To Philadelphia After Nightfall, Over The Arabian Deserts Which Gleam Like Mother-of-pearl, Over The Ruhr Or The City Of Frankfurt, It Is As Though There Were No People, Only The Things They Have Made And In Which They Are Hiding.

Perhaps We All Lose Our Sense Of Reality To The Precise Degree To Which We Are Engrossed In Our Own Work, And Perhaps That Is Why We See In The Increasing Complexity Of Our Mental Constructs A Means For Greater Understanding, Even While Intuitively We Know That We Shall Never Be Able To Fathom The Imponderables That Govern Our Course Through Life.

There Is Something Peculiarly Dispriting About The Emptiness That Wells Up When, In A Strange City, One Dials The Same Telephone Numbers In Vain.

No One Can Explain Exactly What Happens Within Us When The Doors Behind Which Our Childhood Terrors Lurk Are Flung Open.

How I Wished During Those Sleepless Hours That I Belonged To A Different Nation, Or Better Still, To None At All.