Almost every magazine piece I've ever written, I felt like I haven't done it justice, like it was just a gloss.

At that stage of my youth, death remained as abstract a concept as non-Euclidean geometry or marriage. I didn't yet appreciate its terrible finality or the havoc it could wreak on those who'd entrusted the deceased with their hearts.

There is nothing glamorous or romantic about war. It's mostly about random pointless death and misery.

This forms the nub of a dilemna that every Everest climber eventually comes up against: in order to succeed you must be exceedingly driven, but if you're too driven you're likely to die.

The desert sharpened the sweet ache of his longing, amplified it, gave shape to it in sere geology and clean slant of light.

What if I were smiling and running into your arms? Would you see then what I see now?

I'm intrigued by fanatics - people who are seduced by the promise, or the illusion, of the absolute.