Each year, we rent a house at the edge of the sea and drive there in the first of the summer-with the dog and cat, the children, and the cook-arriving at a strange place a little before dark. The journey to the sea has its ceremonious excitements, it has gone on for so many years now, and there is the sense that we are, as in our dreams we have always known ourselves to be, migrants and wanderers-travelers, at least, with a traveler's acuteness of feeling." --from ""The Seaside Houses"
( John Cheever )
[ The Stories of John Cheever ]
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