I Do Not Have Any Home. So

There Are Those Who Know And Those Who Don't Know. And For Every Ten Thousand Who Don't Know There's Only One Who Knows. That's The Miracle Of All Time--the Fact That These Millions Know So Much But Don't Know This.

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.

Because In Some Men It Is In Them To Give Up Everything Personal At Some Time, Before It Ferments And Poisons--throw It To Some Human Being Or Some Human Idea. They Have To.

While Time, The Endless Idiot, Runs Screaming Round The World.

We Wander, Question. But The Answer Waits In Each Separate Heart - The Answer Of Our Own Identity And The Way By Which We Can Master Loneliness And Feel That At Last We Belong.