The Air-Conditioned Nightmare [antikvár]

Preface The thought of writing a book on America came to me in Paris some years ago. At that time the possibility of realising my dream seemed rather remotCj for in order to write the book I would have to visit America, travel leisurely, have money in my pocket, and so on. I hadn't die sUghtest notion when such a day would dawn. Not having the means to undertake the trip, the next best thing was to Uve it imaginatively, which I proceeded to do at odd moments. This preliminary journey began, I recall, with the iiiheritance of a huge scrap-book which once belonged to Walter Lowenfels who, on the eve of his departure from France, invited me to assist at the burning of a huge pile of manuscripts which he had spent years in producing. Often, on returning to my studio at midnight, I would stand at the table and register in this celestial sort of ledger the innumerable little items which constitute a writer's book-keeping: dreams, plans of attack and defence, remembrances, tides of books I intended to write, names and addresses of potential creditors, obsessive phrases, editors to harry, battlefields, monuments, monastic retreats, and so on. I remember distincdy the thrill I had when putting down such words as Mobile, Suwanee River, Navajos, Painted Desert, the lynching-bee, the electric chair. It seems a pity now that I didn't write an account of that imaginary journey which began in Paris. What a different book it woidd have been I There was a reason, however, for making the physical journey, f^dess though it proved to be. I felt the need to effect a reconciliation with my native land. It was an urgent need because, unlike most prodigal sons, I was returning not with the intention of remaining in the bosom of the family but of wandering forth again, perhaps never to return. I wanted to have a last look at my coimtry and leave it with a good taste in my mouth. I didn't want to run away from it, as I had originally. I wanted to embrace it, to feel that the old woimds were really healed, and set out for the unknown with a blessing on my lips. On leaving Greece I was in a serene mood. If anyone on earth were free of hatred, prejudice, bitterness, I thought it was myself. I was confident that for the first time in my life I would look upon New York and what lay beyond it without a trace of loathing or disgust.