Henry Miller

Luck! Well, call it that if you like. Call it luck if it makes you feel any better. Only I happen to know differently. Happens it, happened to me—and I know. It isn’t that I don’t believe in luck. No, but it isn’t what I mean. Say I was born innocent—that comes nearer to hitting the mark. When I think back to what I was as a kid, a kid of five or six, I realize that I haven’t altered a bit. I’m just as pure and innocent as ever. I remember my first impression of the world—that it was good, but terrifying. It still looks that way to me—good but terrifying. It was easy to frighten me, but I never spoiled inside. You can frighten me today, but you can’t make me sour. It’s settled. It’s in the blood.

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.