We Have Only The Language For Fun

There Is No One As Dangerous As He Or She Who Has Nothing To Lose.

For Many Years, I Have Been Moved By The Blue At The Far Edge Of What Can Be Seen, That Color Of Horizons, Of Remote Mountain Ranges, Of Anything Far Away. The Color Of That Distance Is The Color Of An Emotion, The Color Of Solitude And Of Desire, The Color Of There Seen From Here, The Color Of Where You Are Not. And The Color Of Where You Can Never Go.

I've Been Gratified To See Over The Twenty Or So Years Of My Writing Life The West Become Less Of A Colony Of The East; Maybe New Technologies And Too Much Travel Undermine The Idea Of Provinciality.

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.

The Rhythm Of Walking Generates A Kind Of Rhythm Of Thinking, And The Passage Through A Landscape Echoes Or Stimulates The Passage Through A Series Of Thoughts. The Creates An Odd Consonance Between Internal And External Passage, One That Suggests That The Mind Is Also A Landscape Of Sorts And That Walking Is One Way To Traverse It. A New Thought Often Seems Like A Feature Of The Landscape That Was There All Along, As Though Thinking Were Traveling Rather Than Making.