For The Man Who Thought

Arriving At Each New City, The Traveler Finds Again A Past Of His That He Did Not Know He Had: The Foreignness Of What You No Longer Are Or No Longer Possess Lies In Wait For You In Foreign, Unpossessed Places.

To Write Well About The Elegant World You Have To Know It And Experience It To The Depths Of Your Being... What Matters Is Not Whether You Love It Or Hate It, But Only To Be Quite Clear About Your Position Regarding It.

The Catalogue Of Forms Is Endless: Until Every Shape Has Found Its City, New Cities Will Continue To Be Born. When The Forms Exhaust Their Variety And Come Apart, The End Of Cities Begins.

You Are About To Begin Reading Italo Calvino's New Novel, If On A Winter's Night A Traveler.

New York Is Perhaps The Only Place In America Where You Feel At The Centre And Not At The Margins, In The Provinces, So For That Reason I Prefer Its Horror To This Privileged Beauty, Its Enslavement To The Freedoms Which Remain Local And Privileged And Very Particularized, And Which Do Not Represent A Genuine Antithesis.