The More One Gardens, The More One

Travel Is The Most Private Of Pleasures. There Is No Greater Bore Than The Travel Bore. We Do Not In The Least Want To Hear What He Has Seen In Hong-kong.

It Is Necessary To Write, If The Days Are Not To Slip Emptily By. How Else, Indeed, To Clap The Net Over The Butterfly Of The Moment?

I Worshipped Dead Men For Their Strength, Forgetting I Was Strong.

I Do Not Like January Very Much. It Is Too Stationary. Not Enough Happens. I Like The Evidences Of Life, And In January There Are Too Few Of Them.

How Subtle Is The Relationship Between The Traveler And His Luggage! He Knows, As No One Else Knows, Its Idiosyncrasies, Its Contents ... And Always Some Small Nuisance Which He Wishes He Had Not Brought; Had Known, Indeed, Before Starting That He Would Regret It, But Brought It All The Same.