Durell was not a conscious patriot. But when he looked across the Potomac, at the gently swelling hills under the hot sun, the peaceful houses, this river and this land were a part of him that he loved fiercely, above all else. He never spoke of this. It was a part of him like the air he breathed, woven into the texture of his blood and flesh and bones. Yet his devotion to his work did not confine him to this place or that or to any particular people in the world. If someone had called him a humanitarian, he would have laughed...

1956.