All men are lonely. But sometimes it seems to me that we Americans are >>
While time, the endless idiot, runs screaming round the world. >>
There's nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human >>
Remembrance of things past. >>
To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and >>
Oh, for boyhood's painless play, sleep that wakes in laughing day, hea >>
It is a curious emotion, this certain homesickness I have in mind. With Americans, it is a national trait, as native to us as the roller-coaster or the jukebox. It is no simple longing for the home town or country of our birth. The emotion is Janus-faced: we are torn between a nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.