On the old highway maps of America, the main routes were red and the back roads blue. Now even the colors are changing. But in those brevities just before dawn and a little after dark—times neither day nor night—the old roads return to the sky some of its color. Then, in truth, they cast a mysterious shadow of blue, and it’s that time when the pull of the blue highway is strongest, when the open road is a beckoning, a strangeness, a place where a man can lose himself. |
WEDS: A Writer's Wit |Marguerite Young
THURS: A Writer's Wit | Karen Hesse
FRI: My Book World | Glenway Wescott, Apartment in Athens