You Never Feel Better Than When You

With A Nearly Desperate Sense Of Isolation And A Growing Suspicion That I Lived In An Alien Land, I Took To The Road In Search Of Places Where Change Did Not Mean Ruin And Where Time And Men And Deeds Connected.

The Hotel Was Once Where Things Coalesced, Where You Could Meet Both Townspeople And Travelers. Not So In A Motel. No Matter How You Build It, The Motel Remains The Haunt Of The Quick And Dirty, Where The Only Locals Are Chamber Of Commerce Boys Every Fourth Thursday. Who Ever Heard The Returning Traveler Exclaim Over One Of The Great Motels Of The World He Stayed In? Motels Can Be Big, But Never Grand.

Whoever The Last True Cowboy In America Turns Out To Be, He's Likely To Be An Indian.

For Me, Writing Is Not A Search For Explanations But A Ramble In Quest Of What Informs A Place, A Hunt For Equivalents.

At Any Particular Moment In A Man's Life, He Can Say That Everything He Has Done And Not Done, That Has Been Done And Not Been Done To Him, Has Brought Him To That Moment. If He's Being Installed As Chieftain Or Receiving A Nobel Prize, That's A Fulfilling Notion. But If He's In A Sleeping Bag At Ten Thousand Feet In A Snowstorm, Parked In The Middle Of A Highway And Waiting To Freeze To Death, The Idea Can Make Him Feel Calamitously Stupid.