To Get Home You Had To End

Those Who Fought Know A Secret About Themselves, And It Is Not Very Nice.

Chickenshit Can Be Recognized Instantly Because It Never Has Anything To Do With Winning The War.

All The Pathos And Irony Of Leaving One's Youth Behind Is Thus Implicit In Every Joyous Moment Of Travel: One Knows That The First Joy Can Never Be Recovered, And The Wise Traveller Learns Not To Repeat Successes But Tries New Places All The Time.

A Guide Book Is Addressed To Those Who Plan To Follow The Traveler, Doing What He Has Done, But More Selectively. A Travel Book, In Its Purest, Is Addressed To Those Who Do Not Plan To Follow The Traveler At All, But Who Require The Exotic Or Comic Anomalies, Wonders And Scandals Of The Literary Form Romance Which Their Own Place Or Time Cannot Entirely Supply.

I Find Nothing More Depressing Than Optimism.