I have decided to leave Clea’s last letter un-answered. I no longer wish to coerce anyone, to make promises, to think of life in terms of compacts, resolutions, covenants. It will be up to Clea to interpret my silence according to her own needs and desires, to come to me if she has need or not, as the case may be. Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behavior and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it.

Truth is a matter of direct apprehension-you can't climb a ladder of mental concepts to it.

Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully laughter intervened.

Comedians are the nearest to suicide.

Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will-whatever we may think.