Arriving At Each New City, The Traveler

How Well I Would Write If I Were Not Here!

Fantasy Is Like Jam. . . . You Have To Spread It On A Solid Piece Of Bread. If Not, It Remains A Shapeless Thing . . . Out Of Which You Can’t Make Anything.

A Writer's Work Has To Take Account Of Many Rhythms: Vulcan's And Mercury's, A Message Of Urgency Obtained By Dint Of Patient And Meticulous Adjustments And An Intuition So Instantaneous That, When Formulated, It Acquires The Finality Of Something That Could Never Have Been Otherwise. But It Is Also The Rhythm Of Time That Passes With No Other Aim Than To Let Feelings And Thoughts Settle Down, Mature, And Shed All Impatience Or Ephemeral Contingency.

Everything Has Already Begun Before, The First Line Of The First Page Of Every Novel Refers To Something That Has Already Happened Outside The Book.

So Began Their Love, The Boy Happy And Amazed, She Happy And Not Surprised At All (nothing Happens By Chance To Girls). It Was The Love So Long Awaited By Cosimo And Which Had Now Inexplicably Arrived, And So Lovely That He Could Not Imagine How He Had Even Thought It Lovely Before. And The Thing Newest To Him Was That It Was So Simple, And The Boy At That Moment Thought It Must Be Like That Always.