Men on small islands would do well to avoid the pursuit of
philosophy. The island illusion, that solitude and wisdom
invented each other, is a very convincing one. Day by day I seem
to grow more profound. Often I feel I am on the verge of some
great philosophical discovery. Man. War. Truth. Time.
Fortunately I always return to myself. I look beyond the white
lace of the surf to my own unassembled past and I decide to let
others stich together the systems. I enjoy the triteness of the
situtation, man and island, exile in the ultimate suburb. The
surf is massing and rolling, uneven now, page after page of
terrible wild words. All the colors borrow, sea from beach from
sky, and after a while I follow my own footprints back to the
house.
-- Don DeLillo. Americana 1971. (129)