Travel Is A Private Pleasure, Since It

Not Seeing Is Half-believing.

The Writer Catches The Changes Of His Mind On The Hop. Growth Is Exciting; Growth Is Dynamic And Alarming. Growth Of The Soul, Growth Of The Mind.

Of Course I Should Love To Throw A Toothbrush Into A Bag, And Just Go, Quite Vaguely, Without Any Plans Or Even A Real Destination. It Is The Wanderlust.

It Is Necessary To Write, If The Days Are Not To Slip Emptily By. How Else, Indeed, To Clap The Net Over The Butterfly Of The Moment? For The Moment Passes, It Is Forgotten; The Mood Is Gone; Life Itself Is Gone. That Is Where The Writer Scores Over His Fellows: He Catches The Changes Of His Mind On The Hop.

See The Last Orange Roses, How They Blow / Deeper And Heavier Than In Their Prime, / In One Defiant Flame Before They Go.