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.
Only get desperate enough and everything will turn out well.
It is almost a law that when a man embarks on a great adventure he must cut all ties. He must take himself off to the wilderness…
When spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.
This is the moment when I know that any and all signs pointing to this or that place should be ignored, that one should always go toward the place for which there is no sign.
I don’t need much space or environment. I only need to feel that I don’t positively dislike a place.
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.