Las Vegas suggests that the thirst for places, for cities and gardens and wilderness, is unslaked, that people will still seek out the experience of wandering about in the open air to examine the architecture, the spectacles, and the stuff for sale, will still hanker after surprises and strangers. That the city as a whole is one of the most pedestrian-unfriendly places in the world suggests something of the problems to be faced, but that its attraction is a pedestrian oasis suggests the possibility of recovering the spaces in which walking is viable.

A lone walker is both present and detached, more than an audience but less than a participant. Walking assuages or legitimizes this alienation.

I sometimes wonder what those of us who are writers would become in a nonliterary culture - storytellers? Hermits?

There are infinite shades of grey. Writing often appears so black and white.

A labyrinth is a symbolic journey . . . but it is a map we can really walk on, blurring the difference between map and world.

The stars we are given. The constellations we make. That is to say, stars exist in the cosmos, but constellations are the imaginary lines we draw between them, the readings we give the sky, the stories we tell.

We are entering an era of heightened disaster, thanks to climate change. Being prepared for disaster will mean being prepared to sift truth from rumour, and being prepared to adjust our worldview.