As you go along, you literally collect places. I'm fed up with going to places; I shan't go to anymore.

Anything was better than to be loved for one's things.

Walking is a virtue, tourism is a deadly sin.

Music… is a memory bank for finding one’s way about the world.

If this were so; if the desert were 'home'; if our instincts were forged in the desert; to survive the rigours of the desert - then it is easier to understand why greener pastures pall on us; why possessions exhaust us, and why Pascal's imaginary man found his comfortable lodgings a prison.

Because they knew each other's thoughts, they even quarrelled without speaking.

And when you look along the way we've come, there are spirals of vultures wheeling.