In no particular order:
1. Like most others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were al actors, kidding ourselves along a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these tow poles– a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other– that kept me going.
2. I was feeling better now, warm and sleepy and absolutely free. With palms zipping past and the sun burning down the road ahead, I had a flash of something I hadn't felt since my first months in Europe– a mixture of ignorance and loose, "what the hell" kind of confidence that comes on a man when the wind picks up and he begins to move in a straight hard line toward an unknown horizon.
3. I had a license to wander.
4. There was an awful suspicion in my mind that I'd finally gone over the hump, and the worst thing about it was that I didn't feel tragic at all, but only weary, and sort of comfortably detached.
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