How many of those countries he travelled! Searching for his Treasure Island? Countries, cities, cobbled streets with a handmade look, old houses as worthy as books. He was admitted to a library where the wisdom of the ages, sanctified by blood and faith, was there to be read, no, to be heard in that profound stillness, like someone’s footsteps. Hotels, temporary refuges for the intentionally homeless, and trains and planes, with empty boredom accompanied by the rattle of wheels, or the wonder of flight accompanied by the roar of jet engines as you race through the air and the sky, a wretched, wingless insect. Hotel rooms like railway compartments in which, even after settling in, you feel still on your travels, and the only difference is finding yourself in a respectable railway carriage o
