The worst thing about war was the sitting around and wondering what you were doing morally.
Understanding the past requires pretending that you don't know the present. It requires feeling its own pressure on your pulses without any ex post facto illumination.
Travel at its truest is thus an ironic experience.
The simple is carefully shunned by those who labour to seem what they would be.
Irony is the attendant of hope and the fuel of hope is innocence.
Travelers learn not just foreign customs and curious cuisines and unfamiliar beliefs and novel forms of government. They learn, if they are lucky, humility.