For me, travel has been a sweet source. But my sources are not overt, for I don’t write about them; instead, they enter my writing in transformed ways.
Eating a bowl of pasta is not writing. Writing about it is. Understanding that one experience could feed the other is.
If you did good, you would know about it and you are not no one. Perhaps, in this world of conscious ills, a visible and aspirational good is now our only counter.
The poet is always traveling in her mind when she is possessed by the spirit of poetry, and taking stock of the itinerary along the way.
If Sartre is right and 'Hell is other people,' getting away from them often makes for the best kind of travel and art.
I am absolutely certain that travel is not a necessary activity for a writer. To speak of the only place you know may give that place the only record it has had.
Reality is already so bloody insane that you get credit only for staying sane despite it all! You are not really swimming if you let the current wash you away.
I think my daily commute has been more important to my thinking and writing than any long journey I’ve taken.
Memories, like photographs, live in the continuous present though their grains alter each time you enter.
Where there is fear there is wonder. And sometimes transformations occur between the two.
The less one walks – around town, around the neighbourhood – the more tenuous your grip on the substance and core of life, and life is really what one is constantly engaged with and in, if you write.
Sometimes I sit in a cafe or at a desk. Often as I walk in the park near our apartment I compose lines in my head. Several poets do this.
Travel, like writing, is not an end in itself; it is not an endgame that inevitably matures, ripens and falls following a foreseen or not so foreseen denouement.
Kabir says, I am standing on the cross roads of life, if you want to be a poet, first put your house on fire and come with me and be a poet.
I love traveling and seem to have been born with wheels on my feet, as we say in Bengali.
It is very important for a writer to continuously change his surroundings, to pluck himself away from any place he calls home and enter a new space.
Voyages where the individual discovers his identity, his ‘home’ and his allegiances.
The human face is an infinite playground, where all emotions can collide, mingle or fight at the same time.
Men wanted to be liked or seek truth at their own peril, and had it easier, but if it was a woman looking for the truth, the challenges were titanic.
Travel is an essential activity for the writer notwithstanding the the Jane Austens and the Emily Dickinsons of this world.
Even the poorest and most home-bound person travels every day, many times every day – in their memories, fantasies, imaginings, and so on.
I think wicked people don’t read enough and widely especially anything that will challenge and call into question their beliefs.
Being a writer doesn’t mean you must commit yourself to being honest, it simply means that you learn to convince others of your conceits.
Writers travel when they are travelling around the globe, but also travel sitting at home, at their desk, the way Kafka did. If memory is a train, writers are constant travellers, carrying within themselves the invisible maps of memory.
I try not to overpack, which is to say that I like to travel light, or write sparingly, perhaps hence poetry; writing is certainly not overwriting.
It’s futile to consider ourselves as static beings, whether in the realms of ideas or materiality. Even if we just sit in a certain corner, and try hard not to move an inch, our minds will still move.