Man's real home is not a house, but the Road, and that life itself is a journey to be walked on foot.
The song and the land are one.
I learned about Chinese ceramics and African sculptures, I aired my scanty knowledge of the French Impressionists, and I prospered.
Walking is a virtue, tourism is a deadly sin.
Music… is a memory bank for finding one’s way about the world.
I pictured a low timber house with a shingled roof, caulked against storms, with blazing log fires inside and the walls lined with all the best books, somewhere to live when the rest of the world blew up.