Literary confessors are contemptible, like beggars who exhibit their sores for money, but not so contemptible as the public that buys their books. – W. H. Auden
Glorious, stirring sight! The poetry of motion! The real way to travel! The only way to travel! Here today — in next week tomorrow! Villages skipped, towns and cities jumped — always somebody elses horizons! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O my! – Kenneth Grahame