I Find Nothing More Depressing Than Optimism.

Understanding The Past Requires Pretending That You Don't Know The Present. It Requires Feeling Its Own Pressure On Your Pulses Without Any Ex Post Facto Illumination.

Travel Sharpens The Senses. Abroad One Feels, Sees And Hears Things In An Abnormal Way.

The Worst Thing About War Was The Sitting Around And Wondering What You Were Doing Morally.

Today The Somme Is A Peaceful But Sullen Place, Unforgetting And Unforgiving. ... To Wander Now Over The Fields Destined To Extrude Their Rusty Metal Fragments For Centuries Is To Appreciate In The Most Intimate Way The Permanent Reverberations Of July, 1916. When The Air Is Damp You Can Smell Rusted Iron Everywhere, Even Though You See Only Wheat And Barley.

Travel At Its Truest Is Thus An Ironic Experience, And The Best Travellers . . . Seem To Be Those Able To Hold Two Or Three Inconsistent Ideas In Their Minds At The Same Time, Or Able To Regard Themselves As At Once Serious Persons And Clowns.