Marco Polo Quotes

There is still one of which you never speak.' Marco Polo bowed his head. 'Venice,' the Khan said. Marco smiled. 'What else do you believe I have been talking to you about?' The emperor did not turn a hair. 'And yet I have never heard you mention that name.' And Polo said: 'Every time I describe a city I am saying something about Venice.

Each time I say good-bye to a place I like, I feel like I am leaving a part of me behind. I guess whether we choose to travel as much as Marco Polo did or stay in the same spot from cradle to grave, life is a sequence of births and deaths. Moments are born and moments die. For new experiences to come to light, old ones need to wither away.

Marco Polo describes a bridge, stone by stone. 'But which is the stone that supports the bridge?' Kublai Khan asks. 'The bridge is not supported by one stone or another,' Marco answers, 'but by the line of the arch that they form.' Kublai Khan remains silent, reflecting. Then he adds: 'Why do you speak to me of the stones? It is only the arch that matters to me.' Polo answers: 'Without stones there is no arch.

I have not told the half of what I saw.

I did not write half of what I saw, for I knew I would not be believed

When Marco Polo came at last to Cathay, seven hundred years ago, did he not feel--and did his heart not falter as he realized--that this great and splendid capital of an empire had had its being all the years of his life and far longer, and that he had been ignorant of it? That it was in need of nothing from him, from Venice, from Europe? That it was full of wonders beyond his understanding? That his arrival was a matter of no importance whatever? We know that he felt these things, and so has many a traveler in foreign parts who did not know what he was going to find. There is nothing that cuts you down to size like coming to some strange and marvelous place where no one even stops to notice that you stare about you.

I did not tell half of what I saw, for I knew I would not be believed

My heart beats as much as I can breathe.

Marco Polo had seen the inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-colored pearls in the mouths of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over its loss.

There were no mail-order catalogues in 1492. Marco Polo's journal was the wish book of Renaissance Europe. Then, Columbus sailed the ocean blue and landed in Sears' basement. Despite all the Indians on the escalator, Columbus' visit came to be known as a "discovery.

Since Marco Polo, he thought, this climate has defeated Western civilization.

Please Polo." What the hell? "It's Marco." "That's what I said.

I’d like to play a game of Marco Polo—in the 13th century.

You will hear it for yourselves, and it will surely fill you with wonder.

Here people was once used to be honourable: now they are all bad; they have kept one goodness: that they are greatest boozers.

Marco Polo sabía que lo que imaginan los hombres no es menos real que lo que llaman la realidad.

to my father’s amazement, was an ancient but clearly recognizable painting of Marco Polo, who must have visited Huai’an during his thirteenth-century travels about China. The priest asked my father to donate a picture of Jesus for his collection, and, after thinking about it, Daddy did.

There was a time when a book could be sold purely because its author had been to distant climes and had returned to tell of the exotic sights he had seen. That author was Marco Polo, and the time was the thirteenth century.

The map of the world is drawn by travelers and nomads. Built into it are steps, nights and days, stations and encounters.

The personal appearance of the Great Kaan, Lord of Lords, whose name is Cublay, is such as I shall now tell you.

Marco Polo dictated his Travels in French,

I did not tell half of what I saw, for no one would have believed me. MARCO POLO, 1324

Then, I will be a real Italian girl, instead of a total American who still can't hear someone across the street to his friend Marco without wanting instinctively to yell back "Polo!

You will hear it for yourself, and it will surely fill you with wonder.

At this very moment we are breathing the same air that once was Marco Polo’s last breath. And we’re also breathing the same air that was Mozart’s first breath as a baby. you’re also breathing air that’s probably been queefed by Mata Hari, Cleopatra and Marilyn Monroe, which either way you look at it is pretty cool. So, while we’re breathing in the same molecules as Jesus, we’re also breathing in the same air as Pontius Pilot, Attila the Hun and an inmate on Death Row in San Quentin State Prison. We are linked to every other life form that has ever been on this planet because we literally breathe the same air.

Jerott?’ said Lymond. ‘What are you not saying?’ His eyes, as the orderly cavalcade paced through the muddy streets, had not left that forceful aquiline face since they met. And Jerott, Philippa saw with disbelief, flushed. For a moment longer, the strict blue eyes studied him; and then Lymond laughed. ‘She’s an eighteen-year-old blonde of doubtful virginity? Or more frightful still, an eighteen-year-old blonde of unstained innocence? I shall control my impulses, Jerott, I promise you. I’m only going to throw her out if she looks like a troublemaker, or else so bloody helpless that we’ll lose lives looking after her. Not everyone,’ he said, in a wheeling turn which caught Philippa straining cravenly to hear, ‘is one of Nature’s Marco Polos like the Somerville offspring.

Marco Polo, who wrote that Mongol couriers could cover 250 or even 300 miles in a single day. Reading historical tales about such exploits, one could be forgiven for imagining the steppe as a single flat grassland through which horsemen moved with a sense of freedom and ease. Here on horseback, though, it was clear the cavalry were negotiating deserts, mountains, rivers, swamps, heat, and frosts, and somehow keeping their horses fed and healthy, even before leaving Mongolia.

We go naked because we want nothing of this world; for we came into the world naked and unclothed. As for not being ashamed to show our members, the fact is that we do no sin with them and therefore have no more shame in them than you have when you show your hand or face or the other parts of your body that do not lead you into carnal sin; whereas you use your members to commit sin and lechery, and so you cover them up and are ashamed of them. But we are no more ashamed of showing them than we are of showing our fingers, because we do not sin with them.

Marco Polo had been to China; Vasco de Gama had discovered the route to the Cape. The continent was in ferment, in movement, whereas the Mexican world was … absolutely hermetically closed. The arrival of the Spaniards must have been like the arrival of people from Mars... totally unsuspected aliens. The shock must have been profound…I think it’s one of the reasons behind the downfall of the Aztec Empire. In a sense, I think the Aztec Empire died of astonishment, more than anything else.

Simply put, there are actions of state that are the right things to do, even if they cannot be defined in terms of conventional morality.

Related lessons: Don’t go hunting ghosts, and don’t get too deep into a situation where your civilizational advantage is of little help.

Hiding doesn’t work if you go around yelling Marco Polo.

Into these pavilions he admitted the elect, and there, says Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain herb, which transported them to Paradise, in the midst of ever-blooming shrubs, ever-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely virgins. What these happy persons took for reality was but a dream; but it was a dream so soft, so voluptuous, so enthralling, that they sold themselves body and soul to him who gave it to them, and obedient to his orders as to those of a deity, struck down the designated victim, died in torture without a murmur, believing that the death they underwent was but a quick transition to that life of delights of which the holy herb, now before you, had given them a slight foretaste.” “Then,” cried Franz, “it is hashish! I know that—by name at least.

national navies tend to cooperate better than national armies, partly because sailors are united by a kind of fellowship-of-the-sea born of their shared experience facing violent natural forces.

What benefit have the Hindus derived from their contact with Christian nations? The idea generally prevalent in this country about the morality and truthfulness of the Hindus evidently has been very low. Such seeds of enmity and hatred have been sown by the missionaries that it would be an almost Herculean task to establish better relations between India and America... If we examine Greek, Chinese, Persian, or Arabian writings on the Hindus, before foreigners invaded India, we find an impartial description of their national character. Megasthenes, the famous Greek ambassador, praises them for their love of truth and justice, for the absence of slavery, and for the chastity of their women. Arrian, in the second century, Hiouen-thsang, the famous Buddhist pilgrim in the seventh century, Marco Polo in the thirteenth century, have written in highest terms of praise of Hindu morality. The literature and philosophy of Ancient India have excited the admiration of all scholars, except Christian missionaries.

Immer wenn ich mich von einem Ort, der mir gefällt, verabschieden muss, habe ich das Gefühl, etwas von mir zurückzulassen. Wahrscheinlich besteht das Leben ganz unabhängig davon, ob man ein Vielreisender wie Marco Polo ist oder niemals in die Ferne zieht, aus einer Abfolge von Geburten und Toden. Ein Moment entsteht, ein Moment vergeht. Damit neue Erfahrungen an den Tag kommen können, müssen alte verblühen.

Because I live in south Florida I store cans of black beans and gallons of water in my closet in preparation for hurricane season. I throw a hurricane party in January. You’re my only guest. We play Marco Polo in bed. The sheets are wet like the roof caved in. There’s a million of me in you. You try to count me as I taste the sweat on the back of your neck. I call you Sexy Sexy, and we do everything twice. After, still sweating, we drink Crystal Light out of plastic water bottles. We discuss the pros and cons of vasectomies. It’s not invasive you say. I wrap the bedsheet around my waist. Minor surgery you say. You slur the word surgery, like it’s a garnish on a dish you just prepared. I eat your hair until you agree to no longer talk about vasectomies. We agree to have children someday, and that they will be beautiful even if they’re not. As I watch your eyes grow heavy like soggy clothes, I tell you When I grow up I’m going to be a famous writer. When I’m famous I’ll sign autographs on Etch-A-Sketches. I’ll write poems about writing other poems, so other poets will get me. You open your eyes long enough to tell me that when you grow up, you’re going to be a steamboat operator. Your pores can never be too clean you say. I say I like your pores just fine. I say Your pores are tops. I kiss you with my whole mouth, and you fall asleep next to my molars. In the morning, we eat french toast with powdered sugar. I wear the sugar like a mustache. You wear earmuffs and pretend we’re in a silent movie. I mouth Olive juice, but I really do love you. This is an awesome hurricane party you say, but it comes out as a yell because you can’t gauge your own volume with the earmuffs on. You yell I want to make something cute with you. I say Let me kiss the insides of your arms. You have no idea what I just said, but you like the way I smile.

Russia does not require an invasion, only a zone of influence in the Intermarium that it can achieve by gradually compromising the democratic vitality of rimland states. (Hungary, in particular, is well on its way in this regard.)

Because it did used to be cool, super-cool, in fact - she was our Magellan, our Marco Polo, one of the wayward Walker women whose restless boundless spirit propels her from place to place, love to love, moment to unpredictable moment.

Whilst the food we eat nowadays has much to be grateful to the likes of Marco Polo, Alexander the Great and Vasco De Gama, who would have introduced the tangy flavours of South Africa’s Rainbow Cuisine on his way around the Cape of Good Hope to India, Arabic cuisine, with spices of cinnamon, cloves, saffron and ginger was a lot more enterprising than Western cooking at the time. The medley of colours that the spices offered the food had mystical meanings to the Arabs

I wish I were rich enough to endow a prize for the sensible traveler: £10,000 for the first man to over Marco Polo’s outward route, reading three fresh books a week, and another £10,000 if he a drinks a bottle of wine a day as well. That man might tell one something about the journey. He might or might not be naturally observant. But at least he would use what eyes he had, and would not think it necessary to dress up the result in thrills that never happened and science no deeper than its own jargon.

Because moralists in these matters are always driven by righteous passion, whenever you disagree with them, you are by definition immoral and deserve no quarter; whereas realists, precisely because they are used to conflict, are less likely to overreact to it.

Al llegar a cada nueva ciudad el viajero encuentra un pasado suyo que ya no sabia que tenia: la extrañeza de los que no eres o no posees mas, te espera al paso en los lugares extraños y no poseidos. Marco [Polo] entra en una ciudad: ve a alguien que vive en una plaza una vida o un instante que podrian ser suyos; en el lugar de aquel hombre ahora hubiera podido estar el si se hubiese detenido en el tiempo mucho tiempo antes, o bien si mucho tiempo antes, en una encrucijada, en vez de tomar por un camino hubiese tomado por el opuesto y al cabo de una larga vuelta hubiera ido a encontrarse en el luhar de aquel hombre en aquella plaza. En adelante, de aquel pasado suyo verdadero o hipotetico, el queda excluido; no puede detenerse; debe continuar hasta otra ciudad donde lo espera otro pasado suyo, o algo que quizas habia sido un posible futuro y ahora es el presente de algun otro. Los futuros no realizados son solo ramas del pasado: ramas secas. -¿Viajas para revivir tu pasado?-era en ese momento la pregunta del Kan, que podia tambien formularse asi: ¿Viajas para encontrar tu futuro? Y la respuesta de Marco: -El otro lado es un espejo en negativo. El viajero reconoce lo poco que es suyo al descubrir lo mucho que no ha tenido y no tendra.

Marco reported that homeless children [in Kublai Kahn's city of Daidu] were cared for and educated. While he says little about the system of education in China, we know from records of the time that Kublai Khan created thousands of public schools to provide a basic education for all children, including those of poor peasants. Until then, only the wealthy were literate. Kublai's bid at 'universal education' had never been attempted by any country on Earth. In the western world, nearly 500 years would pass before governments began to take responsibility for the public education of all children.

With the Athenians, as with Darius, one is astonished by how the obsession with honor and reputation can lead a great power toward a bad fate. The image of Darius’s army marching into nowhere on an inhospitable steppe, in search of an enemy that never quite appears, is so powerful that it goes beyond mere symbolism.

America is learning an ironic truth of empire: You endure by not fighting every battle. In the first century A.D., Tiberius preserved Rome by not interfering in bloody internecine conflicts beyond its northern frontier. Instead, he practiced strategic patience as he watched the carnage. He understood the limits of Roman power.

The EU gave both political support and quotidian substance to the values inherent in NATO—those values being, generally, the rule of law over arbitrary fiat, legal states over ethnic nations, and the protection of the individual no matter his race or religion. Democracy, after all, is less about elections than about impartial institutions.

All this so that Marco Polo could explain or imagine explaining or be imagined explaining or succeed finally in explaining to himself that what he sought was always something lying ahead, and even if it was a matter of the past it was a past that changed gradually as he advanced on his journey, because the traveler's past changes according to the route he has followed: not the immediate past, that is, to which each day that goes by adds a day, but the more remote past. Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.

Sea power is the compensatory answer for shaping geopolitics—to the extent that it can be shaped—in the face of an infernally complex and intractable situation on land.

En la plaza está la pequeña pared de los viejos que miran pasar la juventud; el hombre está sentado en fila con ellos. Los deseos son ya recuerdos. (Ciudad Isadora)

In the interest of thinking tragically in order to avoid tragedy, policy makers need to worry about how not to provoke more anarchy than the world has already seen.

The age of comparative anarchy is upon us.

But beyond the extravagance of Rome's wealthiest citizens and flamboyant gourmands, a more restrained cuisine emerged for the masses: breads baked with emmer wheat; polenta made from ground barley; cheese, fresh and aged, made from the milk of cows and sheep; pork sausages and cured meats; vegetables grown in the fertile soil along the Tiber. In these staples, more than the spice-rubbed game and wine-soaked feasts of Apicius and his ilk, we see the earliest signs of Italian cuisine taking shape. The pillars of Italian cuisine, like the pillars of the Pantheon, are indeed old and sturdy. The arrival of pasta to Italy is a subject of deep, rancorous debate, but despite the legend that Marco Polo returned from his trip to Asia with ramen noodles in his satchel, historians believe that pasta has been eaten on the Italian peninsula since at least the Etruscan time. Pizza as we know it didn't hit the streets of Naples until the seventeenth century, when Old World tomato and, eventually, cheese, but the foundations were forged in the fires of Pompeii, where archaeologists have discovered 2,000-year-old ovens of the same size and shape as the modern wood-burning oven. Sheep's- and cow's-milk cheeses sold in the daily markets of ancient Rome were crude precursors of pecorino and Parmesan, cheeses that literally and figuratively hold vast swaths of Italian cuisine together. Olives and wine were fundamental for rich and poor alike.

Then Marco Polo spoke: “Your chessboard, sire, is inlaid with two woods: ebony and maple. The square on which your enlightened gaze is fixed was cut from the ring of a trunk that grew in a year of drought: you see how its fibers are arranged? Here a barely hinted knot can be made out: a bud tried to burgeon on a premature spring day, but the night’s frost forced it to desist.

those Muslim prison-states have all but collapsed (either on their own or by outside interference), unleashing a tide of refugees into debt-ridden and economically stagnant European societies.

The more urbanized, the more educated, and even the more enlightened the world becomes, counterintuitively, the more politically unstable it becomes, too.*42 This is what techno-optimists and those who inhabit the world of fancy corporate gatherings are prone to miss: They wrongly equate wealth creation—and unevenly distributed wealth creation at that—with political order and stability.

tons. Marco Polo, who sailed from China to Persia on his return home, described the Mongol ships as large four-masted junks with up to three hundred crewmen and as many as sixty cabins for merchants carrying various wares. According to Ibn Battuta, some of the ships even carried plants growing in wooden tubs in order to supply fresh food for the sailors. Khubilai Khan promoted the building of ever larger seagoing junks to carry heavy loads of cargo and ports to handle them. They improved the use of the compass in navigation and learned to produce more accurate nautical charts. The route from the port of Zaytun in southern China to Hormuz in the Persian Gulf became the main sea link between the Far East and the Middle East, and was used by both Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta, among others.

When Ferdinand Magellan attempted his circumnavigation of the globe in the sixteenth century, he had to assure his nervous, uneducated mariners that they would not in fact fall off the edge of the earth.

The problem with a foreign policy driven foremost by Never Again! is that it ignores limits and the availability of resources. World War II had the secondary, moral effect of saving what was left of European Jewry. Its primary goal and effect was to restore the European and Asian balance of power in a manner tolerable to the United States—something that the Nazis and the Japanese fascists had overturned.

The United States, like any nation—but especially because it is a great power—simply has interests that do not always cohere with its values. That is tragic, but it is a tragedy that has to be embraced and accepted.

There is still the EU, but also individual states, regions, and city-states, with liberalism barely holding off the forces of populist nationalism. To say that this does not undermine the strength of NATO is to be in denial,

We travelled with a bookshelf fixed above the back of our seat. The poor books were shaken madly during all these days, but we rejoiced to be able to lay our hand on the right volume at the right moment. Rubbing against each other were Marco Polo, Pelliot, Evans-Wentz, Vivekananda, Maritain, Jung, a life of Alexander the Great, Grousset, the Zend-Avesta. I picked The Darvishes by John P. Brown and H. A. Rose, and read aloud a passage about Jalal-ud-din Rumi.

Stoics belittle physical harm, but this is not braggadocio. They are speaking of it in comparison to the devastating agony of shame they fancied good men generating when they knew in their hearts that they had failed to do their duty

We must move away from domain control to domain denial, since our only motive to be on the ground in the Greater Middle East and Central Asia is for smackdown or disruption purposes. (In retrospect, that is how we should have handled Afghanistan after 9/11.)

the United States helps topple the dictator Bashar al-Assad on Wednesday, then what will it do on Thursday, when it finds that it has helped midwife to power a Sunni jihadist regime, or on Friday, when ethnic cleansing of the Shia-trending Alawites commences?

Benim Marco Polo'mun kalbinde yatan, insanları kentlerde yaşatan gizli nedenleri, krizlerin ötesinde değerleri olan nedenleri keşfetmek. Kentler birçok şeyin bir araya gelmesidir: Anıların, arzuların, bir dilin işaretlerinin. Kentler takas yerleridir, tıpkı bütün ekonomi tarihi kitaplarında anlatıldığı gibi, ama bu değiş-tokuşlar yalnızca ticari takaslar değil; kelime, arzu ve anı değiş-tokuşlarıdır. Kitabım, mutsuz kentlerin içine gizlenmiş, sürekli biçim alıp, yitip giden mutlu kentler imgesi üzerine açılıp kapanıyor.

despite the threats of Russian and Chinese expansionism, particularly in the Baltic, Black, and South China seas, the more important underlying dynamic will be the crises of central control inside Russia and China themselves as their authoritarian systems degenerate

Civilizations often prosper in opposition to others. Just as Christendom achieved form and substance in opposition to Islam after the latter’s conquest of North Africa and the Levant in the seventh and eighth centuries, the West forged a definitive geopolitical paradigm in opposition to Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia.

We assume, without too much thinking, that any regime change in these places will be for the better. But it easily could be for the worse. Both Putin and Xi Jinping are rational actors, holding back more extreme elements. They are bold, but not crazy. The idea that more liberal regimes might replace them is an illusion.

As we learned to our horror at the turn of the twentieth century in the Philippines, as well as in the 1960s in Vietnam, and again in the last decade in Iraq, to invade is to govern. Once you decide to send in ground forces in significant numbers, it becomes your job to administer the territory you’ve just conquered—or to identify someone immediately who can.

When Marco Polo came at last to Cathay, seven hundred years ago, did he not feel—and did his heart not falter as he realized—that this great and splendid capital of an empire had had its being all the years of his life and far longer, and that he had been ignorant of it? That it was in need of nothing from him, from Venice, from Europe? That it was full of wonders beyond his understanding? That his arrival was a matter of no importance whatever? We know that he felt these things, and so has many a traveler in foreign parts who did not know what he was going to find. There is nothing that cuts you down to size like coming to some strange and marvelous place where no one even stops to notice that you stare about you.

In the lives of emperors there is a moment which follows pride in the boundless extension of the territories we have conquered, and the melancholy and relief of knowing we shall soon give up any thought of knowing and understanding them...It is the desperate moment when we discover that this empire, which had seemed to us the sum of all wonders, is an endless, formless ruin, that our corruption's gangrene has spread too far to be healed by our scepter, that the triumph over enemy sovereigns has made us the heirs of their long undoing. Only in Marco Polo's accounts was Kublai Khan able to discern, through the walls and towers destined to crumble, the tracery of a pattern so subtle it could escape the termite's gnawing.

while our position has been eroding, the internal positions of Eurasia’s two principal hinge states, Russia and China, have been eroding further. They have ethnic, political, and economic challenges of a fundamental, structural kind compared to which ours pale in significance. Their very future stability and existence as unitary states can be questioned, whereas ours cannot.

both Russia and China are dictatorships, not democracies. Therefore, losing face for them would be much more catastrophic than it would be for an American president. Politically speaking, they may be unable to give up the fight. And so we, too, might have to fight on, until there is some form of a regime change, or a substantial reduction in Moscow’s or Beijing’s military capacity

Alexander laughs. They kiss exuberantly. “Now—much more seriously,” she says, “what would you like to play, Captain? Marco Polo?” “How about Little Red Riding Tania?” he says, all teeth. “Okey-dokey.” Making her voice high high high, she says gamely, batting her eyes, “Oh, Captain, what big arms you have...” “All the better to hold you with, my dear.” He squeezes her wet body to him. “Oh, Captain, what big hands you have...” “All the better to grab you with, my dear.” He grabs her behind and presses into her. “Oh, my, Captain! What a—” Anthony takes a running jump, right into the pool, right into his mother and father. Alexander pushes his son underwater and when he releases him, Tatiana pushes her son underwater, and when she releases him they both embrace him and kiss his face. “Ant, want to play Marco Polo?” “Yes, Dad,” says Anthony. “You’re it. And no chasing only Mommy this time.

On a souvent dit, au vu de ces scènes irréelles, que les hommes de Hassan [Sabbah] étaient drogués. Comment expliquer autrement qu'ils [l'Ordre des Assassins] aillent au-devant de la mort avec le sourire ? On a accrédité la thèse qu'ils agissaient sous l'effet du haschisch. Marco Polo a popularisé cette idée en Occident ; leurs ennemis dans le monde musulman les ont parfois appelés haschichiyoun, "fumeurs de haschisch", pour les déconsidérer ; certains orientalistes ont cru voir dans ce terme l'origine du mot "assassin" qui est devenu, dans plusieurs langues européennes, synonyme de meurtrier. Le mythe des "Assassins" n'en a été que plus terrifiant. La vérité est autre. D'après les textes qui nous sont parvenus d'Alamout, Hassan aimait à appeler ses adeptes Assassiyoun, ceux qui sont fidèles au Assass [أساس], au "Fondement" de la foi, et c'est ce mot, mal compris des voyageurs étrangers, qui a semblé avoir des relents de haschisch.

She was floating, arms outspread, water lapping her body, breathing in a summery fragrance of salt and coconut. There was a pleasantly satisfied breakfast taste in her mouth of bacon and coffee and possibly croissants. She lifted her chin and the morning sun shone so brightly on the water, she had to squint through spangles of light to see her feet in front of her. Her toenails were each painted a different color. Red. Gold. Purple. Funny. The nail polish hadn’t been applied very well. Blobby and messy. Someone else was floating in the water right next to her. Someone she liked a lot, who made her laugh, with toenails painted the same way. The other person waggled multicolored toes at her companionably, and she was filled with sleepy contentment. Somewhere in the distance, a man’s voice shouted, “Marco?” and a chorus of children’s voices cried back, “Polo!” The man called out again, “Marco, Marco, Marco?” and the voices answered, “Polo, Polo, Polo!” A child laughed; a long, gurgling giggle, like a stream of soap bubbles.

I’d been reborn since Marlboro Man had entered my life; his wild abandon and unabashed passion had freed me from the shackles of cynicism, from thinking that love had to be something to labor over or agonize about. He’d ridden into my life on a speckled gray horse and had saved my heart from hardness. He’d taught me that when you love someone, you say it--and that when it comes to matters of the heart, games are for pimply sixteen-year-olds. Up until then that’s all I’d been: a child masquerading as a disillusioned adult, looking at love much as I’d looked at a round of Marco Polo in the pool at the country club: when they swam after me, I’d swim away. And there are accusations of peeking and cheating, and you always wind up sunburned and pruney and pooped. And no one ever wins. It was Marlboro Man who’d helped me out of the pool, wrapped a towel around my blistering shoulders, and carried me to a world where love has nothing to do with competition or sport or strategy. He told me he loved me when he felt like it, when he thought of it. He never saw any reason not to.

The shift from precious metals to paper in retrospect clarifies that artifacts serving as money tokens are no more than representations of abstract exchange value—they are thus ultimately coveted for their potential use in social transaction, nor for some imagined, essential value intrinsic to the money tokens themselves. If it were not for international agreements such as those of Bretton Woods, gold could conceivably be as useless a medium of exchange in some cultural contexts as seashells are to modern Europeans. This understanding of money, however, simultaneously implies that there is no such thing as intrinsic value. If value ubiquitously pertains to social relations, any notion of intrinsic value is an illusion. Although the European plundering and hoarding of gold and silver, like the Melanesian preoccupation with kula and the Andean reverence for Spondylus, has certainly been founded on such essentialist conceptions of value, the recent representation of exchange value in the form of electronic digits on computer screens is a logical trajectory of the kind of transformation propagated by [Marco] Polo. It is difficult to imagine how money appearing as electronic information could be perceived as possessing intrinsic value. This suggests that electronic money, although currently maligned as the root of the financial crisis, could potentially help us rid ourselves of money fetishism. Paradoxically, the progressive detachment of money from matter, obvious in the transitions from metals through paper to electronics, is simultaneously a source of critique and a source of hope.

She was floating, arms outspread, water lapping her body, breathing in a summery fragrance of salt and coconut. There was a pleasantly satisfied breakfast taste in her mouth of bacon and coffee and possibly croissants. She lifted her chin and the morning sun shone so brightly on the water, she had to squint through spangles of light to see her feet in front of her. Her toenails were each painted a different color. Red. Gold. Purple. Funny. The nail polish hadn’t been applied very well. Blobby and messy. Someone else was floating in the water right next to her. Someone she liked a lot, who made her laugh, with toenails painted the same way. The other person waggled multicolored toes at her companionably, and she was filled with sleepy contentment. Somewhere in the distance, a man’s voice shouted, “Marco?” and a chorus of children’s voices cried back, “Polo!” The man called out again, “Marco, Marco, Marco?” and the voices answered, “Polo, Polo, Polo!” A child laughed; a long, gurgling giggle, like a stream of soap bubbles. A voice said quietly and insistently in her ear, “Alice?” and she tipped back her head and let the cool water slide silently over her face. Tiny dots of light danced before her eyes. Was it a dream or a memory? “I don’t know!” said a frightened voice. “I didn’t see it happen!” No need to get your knickers in a knot. The dream or memory or whatever it was dissolved and vanished like a reflection on water, and instead fragments of thought began to drift through her head, as if she were waking up from a long, deep sleep, late on a Sunday morning. Is cream cheese considered a soft cheese? It’s not a hard cheese. It’s not . . . . . . hard at all. So, logically, you would think . . . . . . something. Something logical. Lavender is lovely. Logically lovely. Must prune back the lavender! I can smell lavender. No, I can’t. Yes, I can. That’s when she noticed the pain in her head for the first time. It hurt on one side, a lot, as if someone had given her a good solid thwack with a baseball bat. Her thoughts sharpened. What was this pain in the head all about?

We do not live to eat and make money. We eat and make money to be able to live.

The last thing I want to give to the Great Master is a wooden plate inscribed with the word million . This word has been created all these years of my service with the Great Khan. Recounting to the Great Khan about his Great Empire I lacked a word which would at the same time represent a number, and yet so big to stand for the countless values of his Great Empire.

Hangover If I were crowned emperor this morning, every child who is playing Marco Polo in the swimming pool of this motel, shouting the name Marco Polo back and forth Marco Polo Marco Polo would be required to read a biography of Marco Polo—a long one with fine print—as well as a history of China and of Venice, the birthplace of the venerated explorer Marco Polo Marco Polo after which each child would be quizzed by me then executed by drowning regardless how much they managed to retain about the glorious life and times of Marco Polo Marco Polo

All this so that Marco Polo could explain or imagine explaining or be imagined explaining or succeed finally in explaining to himself that what he sought was always something lying ahead, and even if it was a matter of the past that changed gradually as he advanced on his journey, because the traveler's past changes according to the route he has followed: not the immediate past, that is, to which each day that goes by adds a day, but the more remote past. Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.

Marco [Polo] enters a city; he sees someone in a square living a life or an instant that could be his; he could now be in that man's place, if he had stopped time, long ago; or if, long ago, at a crossroads, instead of taking one road he had taken the opposite one, and after long wandering he had come to be in the place of that man in the square. By now, from that real or hypothetical past of his, he is excluded; he cannot stop; he must go on to another city, where another of his pasts awaits him, or something perhaps that had been a possible future of his and is someone else's present. Futures not achieved are only branches of the past: dead branches.

AROUND 1271 OR 1272, MARCO POLO, THE RENOWNED VENETIAN merchant adventurer, was on his way through Persia en route for Cathay when he came upon a story told by travellers in that region. Twenty-five years later he recounted it in his book II Milione, better known today as The Travels of Marco Polo. The story concerned a remote area ruled by one they called the Old Man of the Mountains, whose followers were notorious for their ruthlessness. According to Marco Polo, they had been in existence since the middle of the eleventh century and there was not an Arab leader who did not go in mortal dread of them. The disciples of this leader were kept loyal to their master by the promise that, were they to die whilst in his service, they would assuredly go to Paradise. To strengthen their resolve, the Old Man of the Mountains gave initiates to his following a preview of what it would be like in Paradise by maintaining a fabulous garden within his mountain stronghold. In this pleasure ground, exquisitely beautiful houris wandered ready to fulfil any desire, the fountains ran with milk and honey and the flowers were beyond compare. However, it was said, to enter this fabled place the would-be acolyte was first given a powerful drug and, only when unconscious, allowed in: before leaving, he was again drugged. After their induction, the initiates were given a solid Islamic education but were also taught the arts of murder, killing anyone whom their master commanded be put to death. Before going into battle, they apparently partook of the same drug to increase their courage. The drug was hashish. The veracity of Marco Polo’s writings has long been suspect, yet the story has stuck, enhanced and exaggerated as the centuries have passed. The legend of the Old Man of the Mountains has become nothing short of unassailable fact and his followers, notorious as much for their merciless cruelty as their gargantuan appetites for hashish, have become a byword for brutality. Even the name by which they came to be known derived from the drug it was alleged they took: they were called the Hashshashin. They are now known as the Assassins.

The aftermath of creedal passion is cynical indifference followed by the return of conservatism; creedal passion holds government and society to standards that they simply cannot meet. Nevertheless, Huntington believes, creedal passion is at the core of America’s greatness. By holding officials and institutions to impossible standards in a way no other country does, the United States has periodically

What makes The Travels such a powerful tale is not that it provides an absolute account of Marco’s travels, but, on the contrary how it creates the conditions for us to feel abandoned and lost.

The relative obscurity of Day’s autobiography and other books like it about Vietnam constitute a lesser-known aspect of our civilian-military divide. The books to which I refer should be part of our recollection of Vietnam, but they generally aren’t. They aren’t so much stories that soldiers tell civilians as those that soldiers tell each other.

On the night of July 7, 1937, Japanese and Chinese forces near the Marco Polo Bridge near Beijing clashed, the two sides firing on one another. War between China and Japan, simmering since Japan’s 1931 incursion into Manchuria, erupted.

The Han language resembles no other on this earth. While I had no trouble learning to speak Mongol, and to write with its alphabet, I never learned more than a rudimentary comprehension of Han. The Mongol speech is gruff and harsh, like its speakers, but it at least employs sounds not too different from those heard in our Western languages. The Han, by contrast, is a speech of staccato syllables, and they are sung rather than spoken. Evidently the Han throat is incapable of forming more than a very few of the sounds that other people make. The sound of r, for one, is quite beyond them. My name in their speech was always Mah-ko. And, having so very few noises to work with, the Han must sound them on different tones—high, mid, low, rising, falling—to make a sufficient variety for compiling a vocabulary. It is like this: suppose our Ambrosian plainsong Gloria in excelsis had that meaning of “glory in the highest” only when sung to its traditional up and down neumes, and, if the syllables were sung in different ups and downs, were to change its meaning utterly—to “darkness in the lowest” or “dishonor to the basest” or even “fish for the frying.

Contudo, dois anos após a morte de Marco Polo, em 1329, algo aconteceu nas estepes para onde ele viajara, e no vale do rio Amarelo chinês, que fez com que tudo mudasse. Uma estranha epidemia estava a dizimar vastos números de pessoas. Em 1345, chegara à costa chinesa. Em 1346, estava na Crimeia, onde o pai e o tio de Marco haviam negociado e iniciado a sua viagem épica. No ano seguinte, a Peste Negra, transportada em navios e provavelmente por ratos, propagou-se ao Mediterrâneo. Em Março de 1348, os venezianos morriam à razão de seiscentos por dia. Barcaças seguiam para as ilhas remotas carregadas de cadáveres para serem sepultados. A maioria dos médicos já morrera também. Esse mesmo intercâmbio de mercadorias, gente e histórias que possibilitara a ascensão da impiedosa república marítima estava agora a cobrar vingança. Estima-se que tenham morrido três quintos de todos os venezianos e que cinquenta das suas famílias aristocratas se tenham extinguido para sempre.

Calcula-se que a Peste Negra matou entre um terço e metade dos europeus, e que teve um impacto equivalente na China. Assinalou, para ambas as civilizações, o termo súbito e selvagem de uma era de crescimento e progresso, exacerbada por uma mudança no clima que trouxe invernos muito mais frios e colheitas devastadas. Na Europa, teria alguns efeitos surpreendentes. Excepcionalmente, uma vez que tanto do indispensável campesinato trabalhador nos países ocidentais, como França e Inglaterra, morreu, os que restaram puderam negociar melhores salários e libertar-se um pouco das exigências dos senhorios. Os começos de uma sociedade mais versátil, já não tão aferrada à propriedade da terra pelas famílias nobres, surgiram em consequência da matança bacteriana. Estranhamente, na Europa Oriental o efeito foi quase inverso. Os proprietários de terras acabaram por ver o seu poder e alcance acrescidos e arrastaram gradualmente o campesinato sobrevivente para uma sujeição mais pesada, designada pelos historiadores como «segunda servidão». Isto foi possível porque os proprietários da Europa Oriental, que chegaram mais tarde ao feudalismo, eram um pouco mais poderosos e bem enraizados antes de ter chegado a epidemia. As cidades da actual Polónia, da Alemanha Oriental e da Hungria eram menos povoadas e poderosas do que as cidades mercantis – apoiadas no comércio da lã e do vinho – do norte de Itália e de Inglaterra. Os progressos nos direitos jurídicos e no poder das guildas na Europa Ocidental poderão não ter sido extraordinários pelos padrões actuais, mas foram suficientes para terem feito pender a vantagem contra a nobreza, num momento em que a força de trabalho era escassa. A leste, a aristocracia era mais impiedosa e deparava com menos resistência do campesinato disperso. Assim, uma modesta diferença no equilíbrio do poder, subitamente exagerada pelo abalo social decorrente da Peste Negra, provocou mudanças extremamente divergentes que, durante séculos, teriam como efeito um maior avanço e uma maior complexidade social da Europa Ocidental em comparação com territórios de aparência semelhante imediatamente a leste. A França e a Holanda influenciaram todo o mundo; a Polónia e as terras checas influenciaram apenas o mundo da sua envolvência imediata. Esses efeitos eram, obviamente, invisíveis para aqueles que atravessaram as devastações da peste, que regressaria periodicamente nos séculos mais próximos. No primeiro regresso, particularmente horrendo, as cidades tornaram-se espectros fantasmagóricos do espaço animado que em tempos haviam sido. Aldeias inteiras esvaziaram-se, deixando os seus campos regressarem ao matagal e aos bosques. Prosperaram a obsessão e o extremismo religiosos, e impregnou-se profundamente no povo cristão uma visão sombria do fim dos tempos. As autoridades vacilavam. As artes e os ofícios decaíram. O papado tremeu. Do outro lado da Eurásia, a glória da China Song desmoronou-se e também aí os camponeses se revoltaram. A mensagem de esperança de Marco Polo ecoou em vão entre povos que ainda não estavam suficientemente fortes para se esticarem e darem as mãos.

and in the preparation of those ingredients along with which it is fused to obtain that kind of soft Iron which is usually styled Indian Steel (HINDIAH).[3] They also have workshops wherein are forged the most famous sabres in the world…. It is impossible to find anything to surpass the edge that you get from Indian Steel (al-hadíd al-Hindí).

Indikou sidaérou], "On the Tempering of Indian Steel." Edrisi says on this subject: "The Hindus excel in the manufacture of iron,

Yezd is still a place of important trade, and carries on a thriving commerce with India by Bandar Abbási. A visitor in the end of 1865 says: "The external trade appears to be very considerable, and the merchants of Yezd are reputed to be amongst the most enterprising and respectable of their class in Persia. Some of their agents have lately gone, not only to Bombay, but to the Mauritius, Java, and China.

What legendary travelers have taught us since Pausanius and Marco Polo is that the art of travel is the art of seeing what is sacred.

Throughout the ages the ideal of satya (truth) has permeated Hindu society. Marco Polo tells us that the Brahmins “would not utter a lie for anything on earth.” An English judge in India, William Sleeman, says in his Journey Through Oudh in 1849–50: “I have had before me hundreds of cases in which a man’s property, liberty, or life depended on his telling a lie; and he has refused to tell it.

— Sire, désormais je t’ai parlé de toutes les villes que je connais. — Il en reste une dont tu ne parles jamais. Marco Polo baissa la tête. — Venise, dit le Khan. Marco sourit. — Chaque fois que je fais la description d’une ville, je dis quelque chose de Venise. — Quand je t’interroge sur d’autres villes, je veux t’entendre parler d’elles. Et de Venise, quand je t’interroge sur Venise.

But what enhanced for Kublai every event or piece of news reported by his inarticulate informer was the space that remained around it, a void not filled with words. The descriptions of cities Marco Polo visited had this virtue: you could wander through them in thought, become lost, stop and enjoy the cool air, or run off.