Bogotá seemed a cruel towering place, like an eagles' nest now inhabited by vultures and their dying prey.

It might be said that a great unstated reason for travel is to find places that exemplify where one has been happiest. Looking for idealised versions of home-indeed, looking for the perfect memory.

Many aspects of the writing life have changed since I published my first book, in the 1960s. It is more corporate, more driven by profits and marketing, and generally less congenial - but my day is the same: get out of bed, procrastinate, sit down at my desk, try to write something.

People talk about the pain of writing, but very few people talk about the pleasure and satisfaction.

A travel book is a book that puts you in the shoes of the traveler, and it's usually a book about having a very bad time, having a miserable time, even better. You don't want to read a book about someone having a great time in the South of France, eating and drinking and falling in love. What you want to read is a book about a guy going through the jungle, going through the arctic snow, having a terrible time trying to cross the Sahara, and solving problems as they go.

I like the idea of isolation, I like the idea of solitude. You can be connected and have a phone and still be lonely.

Tourists don't know where they've been, travelers don't know where they're going.