Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection.

A diary is the last place to go if you wish to seek the truth about a person. Nobody dares to make the final confession to themselves on paper: or at least, not about love.

The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.

Somewhere in the heart of experience there is an order and a coherence which we might purprise if we were attentive enough, loving enough, or patient enough.

Every man is made of clay and diamond, and no woman can nourish both.

Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will-whatever we may think.

Truth disappears with the telling of it.