The Wise Traveler Is He Who Is

A Letter, By Its Arrival, Defrauds Us Of A Whole Secret Region Of Our Existence, The Only Region Indeed In Which The True Pleasure Of Life May Be Tasted, The Region Of Imagination, Creative And Protean, The Clouds And Beautiful Shapes Of Whose Heaven Are Destroyed By The Wind Of Reality.

I Just Miss You, In A Quite Simple Desperate Human Way. Oh My Dear, I Can’t Be Clever And Stand-offish With You: I Love You Too Much For That. Too Truly.you Have No Idea How Stand-offish I Can Be With People I Don’t Love. I Have Brought It To A Fine Art. But You Have Broken Down My Defences. And I Don’t Really Resent It.

That Pathetic Short-cut Suggested By Nature The Supreme Joker As A Remedy For Our Loneliness, That Ephemeral Communion Which We Persuade Ourselves To Be Of The Spirit When It Is In Fact Only Of The Body - Durable Not Even In Memory!

There Is Something Intrinsically Wrong About Letters. For One Thing They Are Not Instantaneous. ... Nor Is This The Only Trouble About Letters. They Do Not Arrive Often Enough. A Letter Which Has Been Passionately Awaited Should Be Immediately Supplemented By Another One, To Counteract The Feeling Of Flatness That Comes Upon Us When The Agonizing Delights Of Anticipation Have Been Replaced By The Colder Flood Of Fulfilment.

I Worshipped Dead Men For Their Strength, Forgetting I Was Strong.