If I didn't have writing, I'd be running down the street hurling grenades in people's faces.
If truth is the main casualty in war, ambiguity is another.
The simple is carefully shunned by those who labour to seem what they would be.
Travel at its truest is thus an ironic experience.
Those who fought know a secret about themselves, and it is not very nice.
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.