In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

17 To a Bicyclist in France You mail me postcards stamped in Paris— Notre Dame illuminée, the ferried Seine, the usual best-foot-forward city scenes. Saying you miss the States, your words are pure civilian now—all rank and rancor buried with the notes you typed from BOQ.s another breed ago. You left the generals their Jeeps and crew-cuts for a biker’s tour of Europe on your saved-up pay, and shunned the niche your father wanted you to fit . . . The ex-lieutenant in me wakes and shakes me ten years back. I could have biked from Caen, have cashed my bonds and severance for fare and pedaled humming through Montmartre, Versailles, Provence and downward to Marseilles, but I had someone else to be with somewhere next to go and with something there to do. My past leaves Europe still mere names to me. At times I have regrets—re-plot alternatives I could have lived—pronounce my lived years lost. . . . Yet I can write without a hint of cant I ride with you across the fact of France as fast as I can think since thinking takes me where I am despite these accidents of place. Paris by night and Pittsburgh hills are similarly still at 4:00 a.m. 18 Stillness is stillness, life is life, and earth remains the earth with days quite short, and nights shorter, and trips the shortest prank of chance. Apart, we breathe this day alike and stand an equal distance from eternity— you there in the U.S.A., me here in France. For George James ...

Share