Henry Miller

I was already tramping the streets of Europe, chatting with passers-by, sipping a drink on a crowded terrace. I was alone but not the least bit lonely. The air smelled different, the people looked different. Even the trees and flowers were different. How I craved that — something different! To be able to talk freely, to be understood, to be accepted. A land of true kinsfolk, that’s what Europe meant to me. The home of the artist, the vagabond, the dreamer.