The new American finds his challenge and his love in the traffic-choked streets, skies nested in smog, choking with the acids of industry, the screech of rubber and houses leashed in against one another while the town lets wither a time and die.

It is possible, even probable, to be told a truth about a place, to accept it, to know it and at the same time not to know anything about it.

Again it might have been the American tendency in travel. One goes, not so much to see but to tell afterward.

I'll be all around in the dark - I'll be everywhere.

I wonder why progress looks so much like destruction.

And, of course, people are interested only in themselves. If a story is not about the hearer he will not listen.

In early June the world of leaf and blade and flowers explodes, and every sunset is different.