There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.
Robert Louis StevensonRead
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There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.
A nomad I will remain for life, in love with distant and uncharted places.
We only have to look at ourselves to see how intelligent life might develop into something we wouldnt want to meet. I imagine they might exist in massive ships, having used up all the resources from their home planet. Such advanced aliens would perhaps become nomads, looking to conquer and colonize whatever planets they can reach.
In place of a world, there is a city, a point, in which the whole life of broad regions is collecting while the rest dries up. In place of a type-true people, born of and grown on the soil, there is a new sort of nomad, cohering unstably in fluid masses, the parasitical city dweller, traditionless, utterly matter-of-fact, religionless, clever, unfruitful, deeply contemptuous of the countryman and especially that highest form of countryman, the country gentleman.
And there are new kinds of nomads, not people who are at home everywhere, but who are at home nowhere. I was one of them
Like all great travellers, I have seen more than I remember, and remember more than I have seen.
The short story is the literature of the nomad.
We wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment.
Probably all of us, writers and readers alike, set out into exile, or at least into a certain kind of exile, when we leave childhood behind...The immigrant, the nomad, the traveler, the sleepwalker all exist, but not the exile, since every writer becomes an exile simply by venturing into literature, and every reader becomes an exile simply by opening a book.
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