There Are The Lover And The Beloved,

The Writer Is By Nature A Dreamer - A Conscious Dreamer.

It Is A Curious Emotion, This Certain Homesickness I Have In Mind. With Americans, It Is A National Trait, As Native To Us As The Roller-coaster Or The Jukebox. It Is No Simple Longing For The Home Town Or Country Of Our Birth. The Emotion Is Janus-faced: We Are Torn Between A Nostalgia For The Familiar And An Urge For The Foreign And Strange. As Often As Not, We Are Homesick Most For The Places We Have Never Known.

Death Is The Great Gamer With A Sleeve Of Tricks.

I See A Green Tree. And To Me It Is Green. And You Would Call The Tree Green Also. And We Would Agree On This. But Is The Colour You See As Green The Same Colour I See As Green?

All Men Are Lonely. But Sometimes It Seems To Me That We Americans Are The Loneliest Of All. Our Hunger For Foreign Places And New Ways Has Been With Us Almost Like A National Disease. Our Literature Is Stamped With A Quality Of Longing And Unrest, And Our Writers Have Been Great Wanderers.