If I didn't have writing, I'd be running down the street hurling grenades in people's faces.

Travel at its truest is thus an ironic experience.

So many bright futures consigned to the ashes of the past.So many dreams lost in the madness that had engulfed us.Except for a few widely scattered shouts of joy,the survivors of the abyss sat hollow-eyed and silent, trying to comprehend a world without war.

To get home you had to end the war. To end the war was the reason you fought it. The only reason.

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

The more violent the body contact of the sports you watch, the lower the class.

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.