The people of Dacca are an almost congenitally aggrieved race, rather like the French in Canada; their record, before and after independence, has been one of consistent complaint, always vocal and often violent.
O That I was where I would be, Then would I be where I am not. But where I am I must be, And where I would be I cannot.
In Southern Nevada, there is only a screen door between you and hell.
You are now landing in New Zealand. Everybody is requested to put their watches back ten years.
If an English butler and an English nanny sat down to design a country, they would come up with New Zealand.
The nice part about living in a small town is that when you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else does.
A part of us remains where ever we have been.
If the continent were water and the water land, Key West is where all the sweetness and bitterness, all the honey and sour acids of our complicated American lives would drain. The southernmost point in the United States. Land’s end. Old glory and present decay.
In Vineyard Haven, on Martha’s Vineyard, mostly I love the soft collision here of harbor and shore, the subtly haunting briny quality that all small towns have when they are situated on the sea.
In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.