History shows that it is not only senseless and cruel, but also difficult to state who is a foreigner.

True poetry ought to be secret and clandestine, concealed like a prohibited voice of dissent, while at the same time it should speak to everyone.

It is comforting that travel should have an architecture, and that it is possible to contribute a few stones to it, although the traveller is less like one who constructs landscapes -- for that is a sedentary task -- than like one who destroys them. . . . But even destruction is a form of architecture, a deconstruction that follows certain rules and calculations, an art of disassembling and reassembling, or of creating another and different order.

History shows that it is not only senseless and cruel, but also difficult to state who is a foreigner.

Every journey is played out between standstill and flight.