It doesn't matter that it can't last, that we don't find it more often. To know that there is such perfection, that there has been such perfection — … - Anne Morrow Lindbergh

"And so I miss the fertilization that might come from a contact. And for me — yes, I think I might as well admit it — fertilization does come a great deal from contacts. Why then do I avoid them — in a sort of false pride — shyness — timorous modesty? I used to be afraid of falling in love with people — or having them think I was — that I was chasing them (how ridiculous — I am actually always running away!) but now surely — I should be mature enough to be over that. I am no longer afraid of falling in love, and the other false modesties should vanish. I cannot bear to think "par delicatesse j'ai perdu ma vie." (Because of discretion I have lost my life)."

It is the wilderness in
the mind, the desert wastes in the heart through which one wanders lost and a stranger. When one is a
stranger to oneself then one is estranged from others too. If one is out of touch with oneself, then one
cannot touch others.

There comes a moment when the things one has written, even a traveler's memories, stand up and demand a justification. They require an explanation. They query, 'Who am I? What is my name? Why am I here?