The True Traveler Is He Who Goes

Chance, My Master And My Friend, Will, I Feel Sure, Deign Once Again To Send Me The Spirits Of His Unruly Kingdom. All My Trust Is Now In Him- And In Myself. But Above All In Him, For When I Go Under He Always Fishes Me Out, Seizing And Shaking Me Like A Life-saving Dog Whose Teeth Tear My Skin A Little Every Time. So Now, Whenever I Despair, I No Longer Expect My End, But Some Bit Of Luck, Some Commonplace Little Miracle Which, Like A Glittering Link, Will Mend Again The Necklace Of My Days.

Don't Cudgel Your Brains Over My Little Problems.

The Word 'pure' Has Never Revealed An Intelligent Meaning To Me. I Can Only Use The Word To Quench An Optical Thirst For Purity In The Transparencies That Evoke It - In Bubbles, In A Volume Of Water, And In The Imaginary Latitudes Entrenched, Beyond Reach, At The Very Center Of A Dense Crystal.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

Sincerity Is Not A Spontaneous Flower Nor Is Modesty Either.