There Is A Way To Master Silence

It's Very Hard To Write About That Which Is Always Beautiful And Pleasant And Good. You Don't Get Anywhere With It. There's No Friction In It. There's No Trouble. You Have To Have Trouble. Somebody's Got To Get In Trouble, Or No One Wants To Read It.

The Hindus Are Busy Letting Themselves Be Seen Riding In Cadillacs Instead Of Smearing Themselves With Sandalwood Paste And Bowing In Front Of Ganpati. The Moslems Would Rather Miss Evening Prayer Than The New Disney Movie. The Buddhists Think It's More Important To Take Over In The Name Of Stalin And Progress Than To Meditate On The Four Basic Sorrows. And We Don't Even Have To Mention Christianity Or Judaism.

I Wanted To Meet Other Artists. I Suppose I Simply Felt That I Was Taking Pot Shots At Clay Pipes. Pop! Down Goes Gertrude, Down Goes Jean Cocteau, Down Goes André Gide.

Whereas The Tourist Generally Hurries Back Home At The End Of A Few Weeks Or Months, The Traveler Belonging No More To One Place Than To The Next, Moves Slowly Over Periods Of Years, From One Part Of The Earth To Another. Indeed, He Would Have Found It Difficult To Tell, Among The Many Places He Had Lived, Precisely Where It Was He Had Felt Most At Home.

If You Don't Know Why You Like A Thing, It Is Usually Worth Your While To Attempt To Find Out.