I think the collage pieces of Richard Toon skillfully illustrate using Voice as the unifying element in dramatic narrative and even a sense of “plot,” as thought-in-action becomes the driver more than characters-in-action in some form of pursuit or discovery. Bravo to another beautiful set of keyholes.

I filled out the form for a passport, had my dad sign it, and had my picture taken at Mr. Peabody’s photograph shop. I waited impatiently for the middle of June, when I was finally off with my mates: Johnny Frear, Barry Welch, Johnny Folkes, and others whose fresh faces I can still see but whose names I have lost.

We met early one morning at the train station in Leicester and took an express to London. The journey unfolded in increasingly exciting stages: the tube to Waterloo, the train to Dover, the cross-channel ferry boat to Calais, the Orient-express to Basle, the rattling little Swiss train to Davos. And as I looked out the window on each leg of the journey, more and more I entered a world stripped of familiar sites, signs, and understandings. I loved it. Something entered me in the journey. My first trip abroad. Or I entered something I will call the world. By the time we stepped down from the carriage onto the gravel by the side of the track in Davos, and as we joked around and pushed each other as boys do, I knew I never ever wanted to go back to the life I’d lived up til now, and most of me didn’t go back.