He Didn’t Really Like Travel, Of Course.

Do We Tend To Recall The Most Important Parts Of A Novel Or Those That Speak Most Directly To Us, The Truest Lines Or The Flashiest Ones?

Later On In Life, You Expect A Bit Of Rest, Don't You? You Think You Deserve It. I Did, Anyway. But Then You Begin To Understand That The Reward Of Merit Is Not Life's Business.

All Bad Things Are Exaggerated In The Middle Of The Night. When You Lie Awake, You Only Think Of Bad Things.

Not Merely Hope, But Any Burdensome Yearning: Ambition, Hatred, Love (especially Love) - How Rarely Do Our Emotions Meet The Object They Seem To Deserve? How Hopelessly We Signal; How Dark The Sky; How Big The Waves. We Are All Lost At See, Washed Between Hope And Despair, Hailing Something That May Never Come To Rescue Us. Catastrophe Has Become Art; But This Is No Reducing Process. It Is Freeing, Enlarging, Explaining. Catastrophe Has Become Art: That Is, After All, What It Is For.

Does History Repeat Itself, The First Time As Tragedy, The Second Time As Farce? No, That's Too Grand, Too Considered A Process. History Just Burps, And We Taste Again That Raw-onion Sandwich It Swallowed Centuries Ago.