“i climbed a path and from the top looked up-stream towards chile. i could see the river, glinting and sliding through the bone-white cliffs with strips of emerald cultivation either side. away from the cliffs was the desert. there was no sound but the wind, whirring through thorns and whistling through dead grass, and no other sign of life but a hawk.”

“i pictured a low timber house with a shingled roof, caulked against storms, with blazing log fires inside and the walls lined with all the best books, somewhere to live when the rest of the world blew up.”

bruce chatwin

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