The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?

I'll lie here and learn How, over their ground, Trees make a long shadow And a light sound.

Perhaps this very instant is your time.

The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.

The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?