Quotes About Journey

I had been walking one afternoon in Scotland and thought: Why don't I just keep going ? There was, I said, a magic in leaving a line of footprints stretching across Asia.

My feet beat out a steady muffled rhythm. My thoughts participated in each step, never getting ahead of me.

In the mountains, travelers were reduced to the speed of men on foot. Here, the ancient English sense of journey, 'a day's travel' (French journee ), meant the same as the Old Persian word farsang , 'the distance a man could travel on foot in a day,' and the territory was in effect ungovernable.

I recited and followed this song-of-the-places-in-between as a map.

The solemn stillness of the morning hour lay over the pavement; above in the window panes the early gold of the young sun glistened, and high above swam little roseate clouds which then dissolved into the grey city sky. At that time, as a child, I firmly believed that "life", "real" life, was somewhere far away, beyond the roofs. Since then I have been travelling after it.

I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it.

Happiness, I do not know where to turn to discover you on earth, in the air or the sky yet I know you exist and are no futile dream.

He rode into Haarlem the following afternoon with

It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Arrival often brings nothing but a sense of desolation and disappointment.

Grief is a funny thing because you don't have to carry it with you for the rest of your life. After a bit you set it down by the roadside and walk on and leave it resting there.

AUGUST 9 The next morning, I travel north to my Potts reservation home...In one enormous, empty field a sign is planted that reads Future Home of the Living God. ...I pull over and take a photograph of the sign, and keep driving....We are an idea, then. Maybe God has decided that we are an idea not worth thinking anymore.

I've been told by a couple of knowledgeable elders that you should not wear red at a funeral, or for a year after someone close to you dies. Red is the fire, the doorway to the spirit world. Who knows how long until they are done walking. When the dead see flashes of red as they pass on their journey, they are confused. They think a door is opening and it distracts them from their task, which is to reach a place where we are nothing to them.

As they plodded along, the golden radiance intensified until it seemed to emanate from every feature of the land.

Missing only the prefix. The ex.

It was always what my father called the last leg of the journey. But we did not stop this time. We passed over in a sweep of sorrow that would persist into our small forever. We just kept going.

I put her ashes in the Mississippi River not because she ever noticed the river or gave the slightest indication she wanted that, but because it was a way to think of her as she'd always been, wordless and inert, pulled along by a strong, hidden current.

This time, the rapids sent them through a dark tunnel that seemed timeless, blind, malevolent. A yawning throat of water.

Thomas Wazhashk removed his thermos from his armpit and set it on the steel deck alongside his scuffed briefcase.

Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson

some people fall right through the hole in their lives. It's invisible, but they come to it after time, never knowing where.

there was no place as unknown as grief.

Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haine Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai Sailboat

Walking is a feat of controlled falling. Like life, I guess.

Tookie's Pandemic Reading Deep Survival, by Laurence Gonzales The Lost City of the Monkey God, by Douglas Preston The House of Broken Angels, by Luis Alberto Urrea The Heartsong of Charging Elk, by James Welch