When people start talking of man's inhumanity to man it means they haven't actually walked far enough.

I never liked Jules Verne, believing that the real was always more fantastic than the fantastical.

Man's real home is not a house, but the Road, and that life itself is a journey to be walked on foot.

I climbed a path and from the top looked up-stream towards Chile. I could see the river, glinting and sliding through the bone-white cliffs with strips of emerald cultivation either side. Away from the cliffs was the desert. There was no sound but the wind, whirring through thorns and whistling through dead grass, and no other sign of life but a hawk, and a black beetle easing over white stones.

To lose a passport was the least of one’s worries. To lose a notebook was a catastrophe.

Proust, more perspicaciously than any other writer, reminds us that the 'walks' of childhood form the raw material of our intelligence.

It's an old sailor's idea that every ship has a rope with one end made fast to her bows and the other held by the loved ones at home.