The backstreet cafe in Casablanca was for me a place of mystery, a place with a soul, a place with danger. There was a sense that the safety nets had been cut away, that each citizen walked upon the high wire of this, the real world. I longed not merely to travel through it, but to live in such a city.

A man who embarks on a journey must know when to end it.

Previous journeys had taught me the danger of taking too much stuff.

A journey, I reflected, is of no merit unless it has tested you.

On a harsh expedition, there's no space for anyone who does not intend to finish.

Once in a very long time you come across a book that is far, far more than the ink, the glue and the paper, a book that seeps into your blood.

The desert was bad, but nothing could compare with the horrors of a tropical rain forest.