While time, the endless idiot, runs screaming round the world. >>
It is a curious emotion, this certain homesickness I have in mind. Wit >>
There's nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human >>
The gift of loneliness is sometimes a radical vision of society or one >>
In cities no one is quiet but many are lonely; in the country, people >>
In our extreme youth, in our most humiliating sorrow, we think we are >>
All men are lonely. But sometimes it seems to me that we Americans are the loneliest of all. Our hunger for foreign places and new ways has been with us almost like a national disease. Our literature is stamped with a quality of longing and unrest, and our writers have been great wanderers.