Night Train To Lisbon Quotes

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.

A feeling is no longer the same when it comes the second time. It dies through the awareness of its return. We become tired and weary of our feelings when they come too often and last too long.

Life is not what we live; it is what we imagine we are living.

Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us -- what happens with the rest?

In the years afterward, I fled whenever somebody began to understand me. That has subsided. But one thing remained: I don't want anybody to understand me completely. I want to go through life unknown. The blindness of others is my safety and my freedom.

To understand yourself: Is that a discovery or a creation?

Sometimes, we are afraid of something because we're afraid of something else.

Human beings can't bear silence. It would mean that they would bear themselves.

To live for the moment: it sounds so right and so beautiful. But the more I want to, the less I understand what it means.

So, the fear of death might be described as the fear of not being able to become whom one had planned to be.

That words could cause something in the world, make someone move or stop, laugh or cry: even as a child he had found it extraordinary and it never stopped impressing him. How did words do that? Wasn't it like magic?

Isn't it true that it's not people who meet, but rather the shadows cast by their imaginations?

Loyalty... A will, a decision, a resolution of the soul.

I love tunnels. They 're the symbol of hope: sometime it will be bright again. If by chance it is not night.

When we talk about ourselves, about others, or simply about things, we want- it could be said – to reveal ourselves in our words: We want to show what we think and feel. We let other have a glimpse into our soul.

There were people who read and there were the others. Whether you were the a reader or a non-reader was soon apparent. There was no greater distinction between people.

Then there was a silence he had never before experienced: in it, you could hear the years.

I am still there, at that distant place in time, I never left it, but live expanded in the past, or out of it.

SOLIDAO, LONELINESS. What is it that we call loneliness. It can't simply be the absence of others, you can be alone and not lonely, and you can be among people and yet be lonely. So what is it? ... it isn't only that others are there, that they fill up the space next to us. But even when they celebrate us or give advice in a friendly conversation, clever, sensitive advice: even then we can be lonely. So loneliness is not something simply connected with the presence of others or with what they do. Then what? What on earth?

It wasn't only that you didn't see him anymore, meet him anymore. You saw his absence and encountered it as something tangible. His not being there was like the sharply outlined emptiness of a photo with a figure cut out precisely with scissors and now the missing figure is more important, more dominant than all others.

[Vanity's] an unrecognized form of stupidity... you have to forget the cosmic meaninglessness of all our acts to be able to be vain and that’s a glaring form of stupidity.

But when we set out to understand somebody’s inside? Is that a trip that ever ends? Is the soul a place of facts? Or are the alleged facts only the deceptive shadows of our stories?

We are all patchwork, and so shapeless and diverse in composition that each bit, each moment, plays its own game. And there is as much difference between us and ourselves as between us and others

I would not like to live in a world without cathedrals. I need their beauty and grandeur. I need their imperious silence. I need it against the witless bellowing of the barracks yard and the witty chatter of the yes-men. I want to hear the rustling of the organ, this deluge of ethereal notes. I need it against the shrill farce of marches.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free to that unfathomed, boundless sea, the silent grave!

Why do we feel sorry for people who can't travel? Because, unable to expand externally, they are not able to expand internally either, they can't multiply and so they are deprived of the possibility of undertaking expansive excursions in themselves and discovering who and what else they could have become.

It’s not the pain and the wounds that are the worst... The worst is the humiliation.

What did I know of your fantasies? Why do we know so little about the fantasies of our parents? What do we know of somebody if we know nothing of the images passed to him by his imagination?

Disappointment is considered bad. A thoughtless prejudice. How, if not through disappointment, should we discover what we have expected and hoped for? And where, if not in this discovery, should self-knowledge lie? So how could one gain clarity about oneself without disappointment? ... One could have the hope that he would become more real by reducing expectations, shrink to a hard, reliable core and thus be immune to the pain of disappointment. But how would it be to lead a life that banished every long, bold expectation, a life where there were only banal expectations like "the bus is coming"?

Don't waste your time, do something worthwhile with it." But what can that mean: worthwhile? Finally to start realizing long-cherished wishes. To attack the error that there will always be time for it later....Take the long-dreamed-of trip, learn this language, read those books, buy yourself this jewelry, spend a night in that famous hotel. Don't miss out on yourself. Bigger things are also part of that: to give up the loathed profession, break out of a hated milieu. Do what contributes to making you more genuine, moves you closer to yourself.

Think that you have to die someday, maybe this morning.” “I think of it all the time, and so I play hooky from the office and let myself bask in the sun.

To stand by yourself -- that was also part of dignity. That way, a person could get through a public flaying with dignity. Galileo. Luther. Even somebody who admitted his guilt and resisted the temptation to deny it. Something politicians couldn't do. Honesty, the courage for honesty. With others and yourself.

You can never have for yourself someone who isn't on good terms with himself.

I would not like to live in a world without cathedrals. I need their beauty and grandeur. I need them against the vulgarity of the world.

NOBREZA SILENCIOSA. SILENT NOBILITY. It is a mistake to believe that the crucial moments of a life when its habitual direction changes forever must be loud and shrill dramatics, washed away by fierce internal surges. This is a kitschy fairy tale started by boozing journalists, flashbulb-seeking filmmakers and authors whose minds look like tabloids. In truth, the dramatics of a life-determining experience are often unbelievably soft. It has so little akin to the bang, the flash, of the volcanic eruption that, at the moment it is made, the experience is often not even noticed. When it deploys its revolutionary effect and plunges a life into a brand-new light giving it a brand-new melody, it does that silently and in this wonderful silence resides its special nobility.

Kitsch is the most pernicious of all prisons. The bars are covered with the gold of simplistic, unreal feelings, so that you take them for the pillars of a palace.

When dictatorship is a fact, revolution is a duty”.

How would it be after the last sentence? The last sentence he had always feared and from the middle of a book, he had always been tormented by the thought that there would inevitably be a last sentence.

Each of us is several, is man, is a profusion of selves. So that the self who disdains his surroundings is not the same as the self who suffers or takes joy in them. In the colony of our being there are many species of people who think and feel in different ways.

Sleepless people were bound by a wordless solidarity.

AS SOMBRAS DA ALMA. THE SHADOWS OF THE SOUL. The stories others tell about you and the stories you tell about yourself: which come closer to the truth? Is it so clear that they are your own? Is one an authority on oneself? But that isn't the question that concerns me. The real question is: In such stories, is there really a difference between true and false? In stories about the outside, surely. But when we set out to understand someone on the inside? Is that a trip that ever comes to an end? Is the soul a place of facts? Or are the alleged facts only the deceptive shadows of our stories?

For that is the meaning of a farewell in the full, important sense of the word: that the two people, because they part, come to an understanding of how they have seen and experienced each other. What succeeded between them and what failed. That takes fearlessness: you have to be able to endure the pain of dissonance. It is also about acknowledging what was impossible. Parting is also something you do with yourself: to stand by yourself under the look of the other. The cowardice of a farewell resides in the transfiguration: in the attempt to bathe what was in a golden light and deny the dark. What you forfeit in that is nothing less than the acknowledgement of your self in those features produced by darkness.

...the dreamlike, bombastic wish to stand once again at that point in my life and be able to take a completely different direction than the one that has made me who I am now... To sit once more on the warm moss and hold the cap - it's the absurd wish to go back behind myself in time and take myself - the only marked by events - along on this journey.

Boundless openness is simply not possible. It is beyond our power. The loneliness of having to conceal, it also exists.

Because the one who wishes it – isn’t the one who, still untouched by the future, stands at the crossroads. Instead, it is the one marked by the future become past who wants to go back to the past, to revoke the irrevocable. And would he want to revoke it if he hadn’t suffered it?

It is a mistake to believe that the decisive moments of a life when its direction changes for ever must be marked by sentimental loud and shrill dramatics… In truth, the dramatic moments of a life-determining experience are often unbelievably low-key. It has so little in common with the bang, the flash, or the volcanic eruption that, at the moment it happens, the experience is often not even noticed. When it unfolds its revolutionary effect, and ensures that a life is revealed in a brand-new light, with a brand-new melody, it does that silently and in this wonderful silence resides its special nobility.

Sometimes I go to the beach and stand facing the wind, which I wish were icy, colder than we know it in these parts. I wish it would blow all the hackneyed words, all the insipid habits of language out of me so that I could come back with a cleansed mind, cleansed of the banalities of the same talk.

One who would really like to know himself would have to be a restless, fanatical collector of disappointments, and seeking disappointing experiences must be like an addiction, the all-determining addiction of his life, for it would stand so clearly before his eyes that disappointment is not a hot, destroying poison, but rather a cool calming balm that opens our eyes to the real contours of ourselves.

Jak se člověk rozloučí s někým, kdo mu ovlivnil život jako nikdo jiný?

Getting to know a city through the books in it—he had always done that.

Encounters between people, it often seems to me, are like trains passing at breakneck speed in the night. We cast fleeting looks at the passengers sitting behind dull glass in dim light, who disappear from our field of vision almost before we perceive them. Was it really a man and a woman who flashed past like phantoms, who came out of nothing into the empty dark, without meaning or purpose? Did they know each other? Did they talk? Laugh? Cry? People will say: That's how it is when strangers pass one another in rain and wind and there might be something in the comparison. But we sit opposite people for longer, we eat and work together, lie next to each other, live under the same roof. Where is the haste? Yet everything that gives the illusion of permanence, familiarity, and intimate knowledge: isn't it a deception invented to reassure, with which we try to conceal and ward off the flickering, disturbing haste because it could be impossible to live with all the time. Isn't every exchange of looks between people like the ghostly brief meeting of eyes between travellers passing one another, intoxicated by the inhuman speed and the shock of air pressure that makes everything shudder and clatter? Don't our looks bounce off others, as in the hasty encounter of the night, and leave us with nothing but conjectures, slivers of thoughts and imagined qualities? Isn't it true that it's not people who meet, but rather the shadows cast by their imaginations?

Of the thousand experiences we have, we find language for one at most and even this one merely by chance and without the care it deserves.

أحيانًا نشعر بالخوف من شيءٍ ما لأننا نخاف من شيء آخر

Pokud je to tak, že můžeme žít jen malou část z toho, co je v nás - co se stane se zbytkem?

Proč mě stopy minulosti tak rozesmutňují, i když jsou to stopy něčeho veselého?

De werkelijke regisseur van ons leven is het toeval - een regisseur vol wreedheid, barmhartigheid en verwarrende charme.

اگر این‌طور باشد که ما فقط یک بخش از آن‌چه را زندگی می‌کنیم که در وجود ماست، پس بقیه‌اش چه می‌شود؟

I am certain that all human action is an extremely imperfect, utterly helpless expression of a hidden life of unimagined depths that presses to the surface without ever being able to reach it.

Hij hield van Latijnse zinnen omdat ze de rust in zich borgen van alles wat verleden tijd was geworden. Omdat die zinnen je niet dwongen er iets over te zeggen. Omdat ze taal waren die aan al het gepraat voorbij was.

O VENENO ARDENTE DO DESGOSTO. THE WHITE HOT POISON OF ANGER. When others make us angry at them- at their shamelessness, injustice, inconsideration- then they exercise power over us, they proliferate and gnaw at our soul, then anger is like a white-hot poison that corrods all mild, noble and balanced feelings and robs us of sleep. Sleepless, we turn on the light and are angry at the anger that has lodged like a succubus who sucks us dry and debilitates us. We are not only furious at the damage, but also that it develops in us all by itself, for while we sit on the edge of the bed with aching temples, the distant catalyst remains untouched by the corrosive force of the anger that eats at us. On the empty internal stage bathed in the harsh light of mute rage, we perform all by ourselves a drama with shadow figures and shadow words we hurl against enemies in helpless rage we feel as icy blazing fire in our bowels. And the greater our despair that is only a shadow play and not a real discussion with the possibility of hurting the other and producing a balance of suffering, the wilder the poisonous shadows dance and haunt us even in the darkest catacombs of our dreams. (We will turn the tables, we think grimly, and all night long forge words that will produce in the other the effect of a fire bomb so that now he will be the one with the flames of indignation raging inside while we, soothed by schadenfreude, will drink our coffee in cheerful calm.) What could it mean to deal appropriately with anger? We really don't want to be soulless creatures who remain thoroughly indifferent to what they come across, creatures whose appraisals consist only of cool, anemic judgments and nothing can shake them up because nothing really bothers them. Therefore, we can't seriously wish not to know the experience of anger and instead persist in an equanimity that wouldn't be distinguished from tedious insensibility. Anger also teaches us something about who we are. Therefore this is what I'd like to know: What can it mean to train ourselves in anger and imagine that we take advantage of its knowledge without being addicted to its poison? We can be sure that we will hold on to the deathbed as part of the last balance sheet- and this part will taste bitter as cyanide- that we have wasted too much, much too much strength and time on getting angry and getting even with others in a helpless shadow theater, which only we, who suffered impotently, knew anything about. What can we do to improve this balance sheet? Why did our parents, teachers and other instructors never talk to us about it? Why didn't they tell something of this enormous significance? Not give us in this case any compass that could have helped us avoid wasting our soul on useless, self-destructive anger?

I often feel an aversion, even disgust at the same words written and spoken over and over – at the same expressions, phrases, and metaphors repeated. And the worst is, when I listen to myself I have to admit that I too endlessly repeat the same things. They’re so horribly frayed and threadbare, these words, worn out by constant overuse. Do they still have any meaning?

I revere the word of God for I love its poetic force. I loathe the word of God for I hate its cruelty. The love is a difficult love for it must incessantly separate the luminosity of the words and the violent verbal subjugation by a complacent God. The hatred is a difficult hatred for how can you allow yourself to hate words that are part of the melody of life in this part of the world? Words that taught us early on what reverence is?

The real director of our life is accident – a director full of cruelty, compassion and bewitching charm.

Но я, какой я есть, это чистая случайность

İçimizde olanın ancak küçük bir kısmını yaşayabiliyorsak – gerisine ne oluyor?

Can God create a stone He couldn’t lift? If not, then He isn’t almighty; if yes, then He isn’t either, for now there is a stone He cannot lift.

We are stratified creatures, full of abysses, with souls of quicksilver, with minds whose colour and shape change as in a kaleidoscope that is constantly shaken.

Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us – what happens to the rest?

Postoje ljudi koji čitaju i postoje oni drugi. Je li netko čitatelj ili ne-čitatelj - to se brzo otkrije. Među ljudima nema veće razlike od te. Ljudi bi se čudili kad bi to tvrdio, a neki bi i odmahivali glavom zbog toliko zadrtosti. Ali bilo je to tako. Gregorius je to znao. Znao.

Jij en ik, we zijn beiden bewonderaars van Marcus Aurelius en je zult je deze passage in zijn Overpeinzingen herinneren: 'Zondig gerust, zondig tegen jezelf en doe jezelf geweld aan, mijn ziel; maar later zul je niet meer de tijd hebben om jezelf te achten en te respecteren. Want één leven slechts, een enkel leven, heeft eenieder.

Should we be grateful for the protection that guards us from the strangeness of one another? And for the freedom it makes possible? How would it be if we confronted each other unprotected by the double refraction represented by the interpreted body? If, because nothing separating and adulterating stood between us, we tumbled into each other?

In intimacy, we are clasped into one another, and the invisible bonds are liberating shackles. this clasping is imperious: it demands exclusivity. to share is to betray. But we want to love and touch not only one single person. What to do? control the various intimacies? Strict bookkeeping of subjects, words, gestures? Mutual knowledge and secrets? It would be a silent trickling poison.

He had walked on the beach and wished for icy winds to sweep away everything that sounded like mere linguistic habit, a malicious kind of habit that prevented thinking by producing the illusion that it had already taken place and found its conclusion in the hollow words.

There are things that are too big for us humans : Pain,loneliness,and death, but also beauty, publicity and happiness. For them we created religion. What happens when we lose it? Those things are still too big for us. What is left for us is the poetry of the individual life.

من بين آلاف التجارب التي نخوض غمارها هناك تجربة واحدة لا غير يمكن أن تُسعفنا في نقلها الكلمات. وهذه التجربة اليتيمة لا تُقال إلا مصادفةً وبكل بساطةٍ مهما أوليناها من عنايةٍ وحرص. ومن بين كل التجارب الخرساء المستعصية على القول، تكمن تلك التي تهب لحياتنا، خلسة،ً شكلها و لونها و لحنها معًا.

Грешка е, безумно насилствен акт е да се концентрираме върху Тук и Сега в убеждението си, че така обхващаме същественото. Въпросът е в това да се движим уверено и невъзмутимо, с уместно чувство за хумор и уместна меланхоличност из разпрострения във времето и пространството вътрешен пейзаж, който сме ние.

I start trembling at the very thought of the unplanned and unknown, but inevitable and unstoppable force with which parents leave traces in their children that, like traces of branding, can never be erased. The outlines of parental will and fear are written with a white-hot stylus in the souls of the children who are helpless and ignorant of what is happening to them. We need a whole life to find and decipher the branded text and we can never be sure we have understood it.

Jména jsou neviditelné stíny, do nichž nás ti druzí odívají a my je.

Jsme vrstevnaté bytosti, jsme bytosti plné propastných hloubek, s duší z neklidné rtuti, s citem, jehož barva a tvar se proměňuje jako v kaleidoskopu, jímž bez ustání třepeme.

Bezmezná otevřenost prostě není možná. Je nad naše síly. Osamělost z nutnosti zamlčovat, to taky existuje.

Var det möjligt att det bästa sättet att få grepp om sig själv bestod i att lära känna och förstå en annan människa?

We live here and now, Everything before and in other places is past and mostly forgotten”.

They aren't texts, Gregorius. What people say aren't texts. They simply talk.

We can be sure that we will hold on to the deathbed as part of the last balance sheet – and this part will taste bitter as cyanide – that we have wasted too much, much too much strength and time on getting angry and getting even with others in a helpless shadow theater, which only we, who have suffered importantly, knew anything about ~ Night Train to Lisbon

Iemand zou de hoop kunnen koesteren dat hij door zijn verwachtingen te reduceren werkelijker zou kunnen worden, dat hij zichzelf zou kunnen beperken tot een harde, betrouwbare kern en daarmee immuun zou worden voor de pijn van de teleurstelling. Maar hoe zou het zijn om een leven te leiden dat zich verre houdt van grootse, onbescheiden verwachtingen, een leven waarin alleen nog banale verwachtingen bestaan, zoals de verwachting dat de bus komt?

هل كان بإمكان أفضل الطرق التي نسلكها للوثوق في أنفسنا أن تمرّ عبر معرفة شخص آخر وفهمه؟ رجل انقضت حياته بشكلٍ مختلف وتسير وفق منطقٍ مخالفٍ لمنطقك أنت؟ كيف للفضول الذي كان يلهمك حياةً أخرى أن يتوافق مع وعيك بأنّك كنتَ تُهدر وقتك؟

But the light allowed no temptation to turn back. Its glow made the whole past into something very distant, almost unreal, the will lost every shadow of the past under its luminosity, and the only possibility was to depart into the future whatever it might consist of.

Människor ser man inte så som man ser hus, träd och stenar. Man ser dem i en förväntan att kunna möta dem på ett visst sätt och därigenom kunna göra dem till ett stycke av sitt eget inre. Inbillningskraften formar dem så att de passar in i ens egna önskningar och förhoppningar...

What else? Was this what came from thoughts of time running out and death: that all of a sudden you didn’t know anymore what you wanted? That you didn’t know your own will anymore? That you lost the obvious familiarity with your own wishes? And in this way became strange and a problem to yourself?

Why do we feel sorry for people who can’t travel? Because, unable to expand externally, they are not able to expand internally either, they can’t multiply and so they are deprived of the possibility of undertaking expansive excursions in themselves and discovering who and what else they could have become.

Има нещо странно в това желание, то има привкус на парадоксалност и логическа чудатост. Понеже онзи , който го желае, не е онзи, който все още недокоснат от бъдещето, е изправен на кръстопът. По- скоро е белязаният от изброденоти и превърнало се в минало бъдеще, който желае да се върне назад, за да отнемени неотменимото . И щеше ли да желае да го променя, ако не беше го изтърпял?

...de angst betrof niet die nieuwe zekerheid maar dat waaruit de zekerheid bestond: de weliswaar pas toekomstige maar toch nu al vaststaande onvolledigheid van zijn leven die nu al voelbaar was als een gebrek dat, door zijn omvang, zekerheid van binnenuit in angst veranderde. (...) Of gaat het ons om de behoefte voldoende dingen te hebben beleefd om over je leven te kunnen vertellen alsof het een afgerond geheel is?

Extortion through trust. "Patients confided the most intimate things to him, and also the most dangerous," said Adriana. "Politically dangerous, I mean. And then they expected him to divulge something too. So they wouldn't have to feel naked. He hated that. He hated it from the bottom of his heart. I don't want anybody to expect anything of me, he said then and stamped his foot. And why the devil is it so hard to keep my distance?

Ana babaların çocuklarında yanık izi gibi asla silinmeyecek izler bıraktıkları planlanmamış ve bilinmedik, ama yine de kaçınılmaz ve karşı konulmaz şiddeti düşünmek bile ürpertiyor beni. Ana babaların arzularının ve korkularının şekilleri, yakıcı bir kalemle, güçsüz ve başlarına ne geldiğini hiç bilmeyen küçüklerin ruhlarına kazınır. Ruhlara dağlanmış o metni bulmak ve ne yazıldığını sökmek için bir ömür harcarız, onu anladığımıza da asla emin olamayız.

Door intimiteit zijn we met elkaar verbonden en de onzichtbare banden zijn bevrijdende boeien. De verbondenheid is gebiedend: ze vereist exclusiviteit. Delen is verraden. Maar het is niet zo dat we slechts een enkele persoon mogen liefhebben, en aanraken. Wat te doen? Regie voeren over de verschillende intimiteiten? Een penibele boekhouding voeren over onderwerpen, woorden, gebaren? Over gedeelde kennis en over geheimen? Dat zou geruisloos druppelend gif zijn.

You and I are both admirers of Marcus Aurelius, and you will remember this passage in his Meditations: ‘Do wrong to thyself, do wrong to thyself, my soul; but later thou wilt no longer have the opportunity of respecting and honouring thyself. For every man has but one life. But yours is nearly finished, though in it you had no regard for yourself but placed thy felicity in the souls of others … But those who do not observe the impulses of their own minds must of necessity be unhappy.

Many a teacher was afraid when Amadeu's concentrated look fell on him. Not that it was a rejecting, provoking or belligerent look. But it gave the explainer exactly one chance to get it right. If you made a mistake or showed uncertainty, his look wasn't lurking or contemptuous, you couldn't even read disappointment in it, no , he simply averted his eyes, didn't wanted to make you feel it, was polite and friendly as he left. But it was precisely this tangible desire not to would that was destructive.

After a while, he understood that he was experiencing a great liberation; the liberation from his self-imposed limitation, from a slowness and heaviness expressed in his name and had been expressed in the slow measured steps of his father walking ponderously from one room of the museum to another; liberation from an image of himself in which, even when he wasn’t reading, he was someone bending myopically over dusty books; an image he hadn’t drawn systematically, but that had grown slowly and imperceptibly; the image of Mundus, which bore not only his own handwriting, but also the handwriting of many others who had found it pleasant and convenient to be able to hold on to this silent museum-like figure and rest in it.

Z tisíce zkušeností, které učiníme, zformulujeme do slov nejvýš jednu, a i tu spíš náhodně a bez pečlivosti, jakou by si zasloužila. Mezi všemi těmi němými zkušenostmi jsou skryty i takové, které našemu životu nepozorovaně propůjčují tvar, barvu a melodii. Když se pak jako archeologové duše k těmto pokladům obrátíme, objevíme, jak jsou matoucí. Předmět našeho pozorování odmítá klidně postát, slova sklouzávají po prožitém, a nakonec se na papíře ocitnou samé protimluvy. Dlouho jsem věřil, že je to nedostatek, něco, co je potřeba překonat. Dnes si myslím, že je to jinak: že přijmout ten zmatek představuje královskou cestu k pochopení těchto důvěrně známých a přece záhadných zkušeností. Zní to zvláštně, vlastně podivínsky, přiznávám. Ale od chvíle, odkdy to takhle vidím, mám pocit, že jsem poprvé skutečně bdělý a že jsem živý.

Later, this desire will invade and overwhelm me. It will begin, in the classic way, with an urge to travel to new places, destinations selected from maps and picture postcards. I will take trains, boats, planes, I will embrace Europe, discover London, a youth hostel next to Paddington Station, a Bronski Beat concert, thrift stores, the speakers of Hyde Park, beer gardens, darts, tawdry nights, Rome, walks among the ruins, finding shelter under the umbrella pines, tossing coins into fountains, watching boys with slicked-back hair whistle at passing girls. Barcelona, drunken wanderings along La Rambla and accidental meetings late on the waterfront. Lisbon and the sadness that’s inevitable before such faded splendor. Amsterdam with her mesmerizing volutes and red neon. All the things you do when you’re twenty years old. The desire for constant movement will come after, the impossibility of staying in one place, the hatred of the roots that hold you there, Doesn’t matter where you go, just change the scenery,