The middles cleave to euphemisms not just because they're an aid in avoiding facts. They like them also because they assist their social yearnings towards pomposity. This is possible because most euphemisms permit the speaker to multiply syllables, and the middle class confuses sheer numerousness with weight and value.

If the guidebook used to be critical, today it seems largely a celebratory adjunct to the publicity operations of hotels, resorts, and even countries.

A more or less accurate measure of class in America is TV size: the bigger your TV, the lower your class.

Those who fought know a secret about themselves, and it is not very nice.

Chickenshit can be recognized instantly because it never has anything to do with winning the war.

And the ideal travel writer is consumed not just with a will to know. He is also moved by a powerful will to teach.

All the pathos and irony of leaving one's youth behind is thus implicit in every joyous moment of travel: one knows that the first joy can never be recovered, and the wise traveller learns not to repeat successes but tries new places all the time.