“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.”

— T.S. Eliot

“I do not for a minute forget the dark gusts that roll dooms like tumbleweeds in the night across troubled America. But, for a few hours on a few days, at least I see the mixture. I know the paradox of this country. Like that pitcher of water described by doomsters as half-empty and by Pollyannas as half-full—we are neither half-mad nor half-sane, but best spoken of as some wild place between: a fabulous, ramshackle concoction of peoples, places, times and journeys that somehow, in some lump-wheeled manner of fashion, stays on the tracks, reaches where it wants and comes back for another go-round.

This year, probably more than any recent year, the American soul is in need of religious retreats. And is not the train one of the last, and perhaps most logical, places where we can satisfy our terrible hunger to get away?

Is it too much to ask of the coast-to-coast voyaging American, who always pleads the excuse of time, to perhaps once a year place himself for two and one half short days in an environment where he cannot use telephones and, best of all, where the barracuda telephone cannot devour him? Are 60 hours too many to give for what one receives back from such a journey?” — Ray Bradbury (Any Friend of Trains is a Friend of Mine)

This is the gatefold for The Horizon Terminal (WP-1001).