Thus in the forest of my mind’s exile An ancient Memory sounds a full-throated horn! I think of sailors forgotten upon an isle, Of the captives, of the vanquished!… and of many more!
The Swan, Baudelaire
The only constant is that we go on walking, that we remain pilgrims of possibility. We would not walk if we had already arrived. We would not write if we had already arrived. Out of our incompleteness and our disorientation, out of our longing and our wanderlust, arises the motive force of every love and every revolution, of our science and our art, of our creation and our self-creation. Every creative act is an act of traversal.
