You’re saying that man “makes” his territory by naming the “things” in it?

I climbed a path and from the top looked up-stream towards Chile. I could see the river, glinting and sliding through the bone-white cliffs with strips of emerald cultivation either side. Away from the cliffs...

I never liked Jules Verne, believing that the real was always more fantastic than the fantastical.

The usual run of children’s books left me cold, and at the age of six I decided to write a book of my own. I managed the first line, ‘I am a swallow.’ Then I...

Sluggish and sedentary peoples, such as the Ancient Egyptians– with their concept of an afterlife journey through the Field of Reeds– project on to the next world the journeys they failed to make in this...

[…] I will go to France, to Yugoslavia, to China and continue my profession.”As sanitary engineer?”No, Monsieur. As adventurer. I will see all the peoples and all the countries in the world.

The real home of man is not his house but the road. Life itself is a travel that has to be done by foot.

Walking is a virtue, tourism is a deadly sin.

Proust, more perspicaciously than any other writer, reminds us that the ‘walks’ of childhood form the raw material of our intelligence.

If this were so; if the desert were ‘home’; if our instincts were forged in the desert; to survive the rigours of the desert – then it is easier to understand why greener pastures pall...

A journey is a fragment of Hell.