It Was One Of The Charms Of

Everyone Is Isolated From Everyone Else. The Concept Of Society Is Like A Cushion To Protect Us From The Knowledge Of That Isolation. A Fiction That Serves As An Anesthetic.

The Only Thing That Makes Life Worth Living Is The Possibility Of Experiencing Now And Then A Perfect Moment. And Perhaps Even More Than That, It's Having The Ability To Recall Such Moments In Their Totality, To Contemplate Them Like Jewels.

It's Unnecessary And Destructive To Think Of Oneself At All. People Ask Me, 'what Do You Think Of Yourself As?' My Answer Is, 'nothing.

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.

Because We Don't Know When We Will Die, We Get To Think Of Life As An Inexhaustible Well. Yet Everything Happens Only A Certain Number Of Times, And A Very Small Number Really. How Many More Times Will You Remember A Certain Afternoon Of Your Childhood, An Afternoon That Is So Deeply A Part Of Your Being That You Can't Even Conceive Of Your Life Without It? Perhaps Four Or Five Times More, Perhaps Not Even That. How Many More Times Will You Watch The Full Moon Rise? Perhaps 20. And Yet It All Seems Limitless.