Prague Travel Quotes

Libraries are fascinating places; sometimes you feel you are under the canopy of a railway station, and when you read books about exotic places there's a feeling of traveling to distant lands.

One should learn to connect the bridge between the heart and the mind. That’s what crowns you with eternity, and makes you the master of your own life rather than a slave of someone else’s.

So I close this long reflection on what I hope is a not-too-quaveringly semi-Semitic note. When I am at home, I will only enter a synagogue for the bar or bat mitzvah of a friend's child, or in order to have a debate with the faithful. (When I was to be wed, I chose a rabbi named Robert Goldburg, an Einsteinian and a Shakespearean and a Spinozist, who had married Arthur Miller to Marilyn Monroe and had a copy of Marilyn’s conversion certificate. He conducted the ceremony in Victor and Annie Navasky's front room, with David Rieff and Steve Wasserman as my best of men.) I wanted to do something to acknowledge, and to knit up, the broken continuity between me and my German-Polish forebears. When I am traveling, I will stop at the shul if it is in a country where Jews are under threat, or dying out, or were once persecuted. This has taken me down queer and sad little side streets in Morocco and Tunisia and Eritrea and India, and in Damascus and Budapest and Prague and Istanbul, more than once to temples that have recently been desecrated by the new breed of racist Islamic gangster. (I have also had quite serious discussions, with Iraqi Kurdish friends, about the possibility of Jews genuinely returning in friendship to the places in northern Iraq from which they were once expelled.) I hate the idea that the dispossession of one people should be held hostage to the victimhood of another, as it is in the Middle East and as it was in Eastern Europe. But I find myself somehow assuming that Jewishness and 'normality' are in some profound way noncompatible. The most gracious thing said to me when I discovered my family secret was by Martin, who after a long evening of ironic reflection said quite simply: 'Hitch, I find that I am a little envious of you.' I choose to think that this proved, once again, his appreciation for the nuances of risk, uncertainty, ambivalence, and ambiguity. These happen to be the very things that 'security' and 'normality,' rather like the fantasy of salvation, cannot purchase.

I always want to be somewhere else, in the place I have just fled from. In recent years this condition has, if anything, become worse: I go to and from Vienna at diminishing intervals, and from Nathal I will often go to some other big city, to Venice or Rome and back, or to Prague and back. The truth is that I am happy only when I am sitting in the car, between the place I have just left and the place I am driving to. I am happy only when I am traveling; when I arrive, no matter where, I am suddenly the unhappiest person imaginable. Basically I am one of those people who cannot bear to be anywhere and are happy only between places.

I’ll find my group one day. Friends I belong with, a city, a community, a place to get all those ideas out and let them be heard and appreciated. I’ll be something one day. I know I will.
 For now I’m walking lonely in Prague at Christmas, feeling like the happiest, most unknown girl in the world.

Sparrows soar on high; they are light and agile. They fly through the clouds unafraid and travel where the skeleton could never go. That is strength on little wings. And they fly about inside the tower, waiting for the sun to go down so they can open the windows and escape out into the night sky.” “And what do they do when they come out?” “They rain tiny blessings down on the Jews of Prague while we all are asleep. They shine light in the darkness.

Such a beautiful place at night. This is Prague.

Ritzonia" was the epithet coined by Bernard Bernson, who sold Italian pictures to American millionaires, to describe the unreal, mortifying sameness of their luxury. "Ritzonia," he wrote in 1909, "carries its inmates like a wishing carpet from place to place, the same people, the same meals, the same music. Within its walls you might be at Peking or Prague or Paris or London and you would never know where.

When you are quite well enough to travel, Latimer, I shall take you home with me. The journey will amuse you and do you good, for I shall go through the Tyrol and Austria, and you will see many new places. Our neighbours, the Filmores, are come; Alfred will join us at Basle, and we shall all go together to Vienna, and back by Prague...' My father was called away before he had finished his sentence, and he left my mind resting on the word Prague with a strange sense that a new and wondrous scene was breaking upon me: a city under the broad sunshine, that seemed to me as if it were summer sunshine of a long-past century arrested in its course-unrefreshed for ages by dews of night, or the rushing rain-cloud; scorching the dusty, weary, time-eaten grandeur of a people doomed to live on in the stale repetition of memories, like deposed and superannuated kings in their regal gold inwoven tatters. The city looked so thirsty that the broad river seemed to me a sheet of metal; and the blackened statues, as I passed under their blank gaze, along the unending bridge, with their ancient garments and their saintly crowns, seemed to me the real inhabitants and owners of this place, while the busy, trivial men and women, hurrying to and fro, were a swarm of ephemeral visitants infesting it for a day. It is such grim, stony beings as these, I thought, who are the fathers of ancient faded children, in those tanned time-fretted dwellings that crowd the steep before me; who pay their court in the worn and crumbling pomp of the palace which stretches its monotonous length on the height; who worship wearily in the stifling air of the churches, urged by no fear or hope, but compelled by their doom to be ever old and undying, to live on in the rigidity of habit, as they live on in perpetual midday, without the repose of night or the new birth of morning. A stunning clang of metal suddenly thrilled through me, and I became conscious of the objects in my room again: one of the fire-irons had fallen as Pierre opened the door to bring me my draught. My heart was palpitating violently, and I begged Pierre to leave my draught beside me; I would take it presently. ("The Lifted Veil")

Besides, Prague is famous for its many churches with gold-leaf covered domes. In the sunshine, Prague is golden. I fell in love for ever. At the end of the five day stay, the entire group boarded a train for Paris. Although my parents knew the time of my arrival, they could not travel on the

Between the desolate earth and the colorless sky appeared an Image of the ungrateful world in which, for the first time, he came to himself at last. On this earth, restored to the despair of innocence, a traveler lost in a primitive world, he regained contact, and with his list pressed to his chest, his face flattened against the glass, he calculated his hunger for himself and for the certainty of the splendors dormant within him. He wanted to crush himself into that mud, to reenter the earth by immersing himself in that clay, to stand on that limitless plain covered with dirt, stretching his arms to the sooty sponge of the sky, as though confronting the superb and despairing symbol of life itself, to affirm his solidarity with the world at its worst, to declare himself life's accomplice even in its thanklessness and its filth. Then the great impulse that had sustained him collapsed for the first time since he left Prague. Mersault pressed his tears and his lips against the cold pane. Again the glass blurred, the landscape disappeared.

I could’ve said a thousand things in that moment, and all of them would’ve been true. I’d like to travel—Florence and Thailand and Prague. I’d like to write books. I’d like to fall in love a thousand times. Live hard and desperate and full, my pulse pounding like a bass drum. And when I wake up one morning suddenly, surprisingly, a grown-up, I’d like to be sure in the knowledge that I enjoyed it. Every fucking second.

Prague is far more than the sum of its physical parts or its history. It is a city of the mind and the imagination, a city that exists as vividly in poetry and painting and music and legend as it does in brick and stone... Just as the physical city of Prague would be unimaginable without its unique topography, without its palaces, its churches, its parks, its streets, and its hostelries, so the Prague of the mind would be unimaginable without its storytellers and the tales they weave.

A long time ago I was in the ancient city of Prague and at the same time Joseph Alsop, the justly famous critic of places and events, was there. He talked to informed people, officials, ambassadors; he read reports, even the fine print and figures, while I in my slipshod manner roved about with actors, gypsies, vagabonds. Joe and I flew home to America on the same plane, and on the way he told me about Prague, and his Prague had no relation to the city I had seen and heard. It just wasn’t the same place, and yet each of us was honest, neither one a liar, both pretty good observers by any standard, and we brought home two cities, two truths.

Travel Bucket List 1. Have a torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD. 2. Stay for a night in Le Grotte della Civita. Matera, Italy. 3. Go scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef. Queensland, Australia. 4. Watch a burlesque show. Paris, France. 5. Toss a coin and make an epic wish at the Trevi Fountain. Rome, Italy. 6. Get a selfie with a guard at Buckingham Palace. London, England. 7. Go horseback riding in the mountains. Banff, Alberta, Canada. 8. Spend a day in the Grand Bazaar. Istanbul, Turkey. 9. Kiss the Blarney Stone. Cork, Ireland. 10. Tour vineyards on a bicycle. Bordeaux, France. 11. Sleep on a beach. Phuket, Thailand. 12. Take a picture of a Laundromat. Country: All. 13. Stare into Medusa’s eyes in the Basilica Cistern. Istanbul, Turkey. 14. Do NOT get eaten by a lion. The Serengeti, Tanzania. 15. Take a train through the Canadian Rockies. British Columbia, Canada. 16. Dress like a Bond Girl and play a round of poker at a casino. Montreal, Quebec, Canada. 17. Make a wish on a floating lantern. Thailand. 18. Cuddle a koala at Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary. Queensland, Australia. 19. Float through the grottos. Capri, Italy. 20. Pose with a stranger in front of the Eiffel Tower. Paris, France. 21. Buy Alex a bracelet. Country: All. 22. Pick sprigs of lavender from a lavender field. Provence, France. 23. Have afternoon tea in the real Downton Abbey. Newberry, England. 24. Spend a day on a nude beach. Athens, Greece. 25. Go to the opera. Prague, Czech Republic. 26. Skinny dip in the Rhine River. Cologne, Germany. 27. Take a selfie with sheep. Cotswolds, England. 28. Take a selfie in the Bone Church. Sedlec, Czech Republic. 29. Have a pint of beer in Dublin’s oldest bar. Dublin, Ireland. 30. Take a picture from the tallest building. Country: All. 31. Climb Mount Fuji. Japan. 32. Listen to an Irish storyteller. Ireland. 33. Hike through the Bohemian Paradise. Czech Republic. 34. Take a selfie with the snow monkeys. Yamanouchi, Japan. 35. Find the penis. Pompeii, Italy. 36. Walk through the war tunnels. Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam. 37. Sail around Ha long Bay on a junk boat. Vietnam. 38. Stay overnight in a trulli. Alberobello, Italy. 39. Take a Tai Chi lesson at Hoan Kiem Lake. Hanoi, Vietnam. 40. Zip line over Eagle Canyon. Thunderbay, Ontario, Canada.

The boy bites his lip, then lowers his head as if he’s praying. (He might be. I know I am.) Benjamin’s kiss travels all the way down my spine. The feeling of it grows between my ribs like his roses— sharp, tender, perfect. His tongue speaks a secret language to mine, and his hands brush my shoulder blades, making me feel as if I have wings. The kiss lasts for his lifetime and my unfolding one. It reaches lives we haven’t lived yet, and all the ones we’ve forgotten. When we come back down to earth, to Prague, to now, I feel like someone new. A flower bursts from Benjamin’s cheek, its scarlet petals shattering

Prague entranced you, lured you in, like the mythic fey who trick travelers deep into forests until they’re lost beyond hope.

The Universe does not care one whit if it violates liberal principles. The Universe has no particular preference for traditional family values. The Universe is completely unmoved by our common sense. Simply put, reality is indifferent to our beliefs, sensibilities or expectations of it. People, however, are not indifferent. Almost universally, even in the face of unambiguously dissonant evidence, people hold world views that feel ideologically comfortable. This completely destroys their ability to properly assess the future. By way of analogy, suppose a man travels 381 kilometers east by southeast. Where will he be? Clearly, that depends entirely upon where he was when he started. If one assumes that he started in San Francisco, the description of his destination will be entirely incorrect if, in reality, he started from Prague. By the same logic, if one considers the future starting from an ideologically comfortable rather than an objectively supportable world view, the predictive methodologies could be absolutely correct but the result will still be very wrong. Consequently, I constantly challenge myself with the question, ‘Is this assertion objectively supportable or is it attractive simply because it is ideologically comfortable?

It had been on one of those packages they advertised in the travel pages of the papers on a Saturday. “See the Northern Lights—Five-Day Cruise off the Coast of Norway,” “The Wonders of Prague,” “Beautiful Bordeaux—Wine Tasting for the Beginner,” “Autumn on Lake Como.” It offered a safe way to travel (the coward’s way), everything was organized for you so that all you had to do was turn up with your passport. Middle-class, middle-aged, middle England. And middle Scotland, of course. Safety in numbers, in the herd.

Do what you love, and excel in it.

I photographed the Charles Bridge from several angles to capture my desired perspective and composition. Like me, several other amateur photographers had also flocked to the bridge to witness and capture the sunrise as it inked the sky in shades of pink, purple and orange while enjoying magnificent views of the city.

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Go ahead. Take it. If there is one thing that loving a Hawthorne man taught me, it is that there are benefits to physical reminders of the past. To reminders of costs and risks, stories told and untold.” Jameson stared at her. “I don’t understand.” “I know,” Alice Hawthorne said. “If I thought you did, well, then we would have a problem.” She let her gaze travel down to the cuts on his neck and then lower. Jameson looked down at his own body. Dried blood and ashes. There are ways, Jameson Hawthorne, to take care of problems. “You really should be going,” his grandmother said, finishing her tea. “It’s nearly dawn now, and I believe your little heiress is getting quite antsy about your absence.” Alice stood. “She’ll have questions, I’m sure.” Jameson heard the threat inherent in that sentence. As much as he wanted to know what the hell this was—how the hell any of this was possible—Avery was the one thing that he would not, could not risk. Fear wasn’t just ice in your veins or a beast at your throat. Fear was loving someone so fiercely that there was no point in your heart beating if hers did not. Jameson looked Alice Hawthorne directly in the eyes. “There’s nothing to tell.” The old woman gave a soft hmmm, and as she began to walk away, leaving Jameson staring out at the city of Prague and the coming dawn, he couldn’t bite back one more question—just one of all the thousands he had. “The old man,” Jameson called out. “Did he know?” Silence was his grandmother’s only reply, but Jameson’s mind, wired as it was for puzzles and riddles and codes, came up with an answer of its own. Who else would have drawn that map? The old man had known that his beloved was alive. That she was in Prague. The real question was what else Tobias Hawthorne had known. What else there was to know. Fire and pain and fear and the price of wheat. Memories hovered like ghosts over graves. Jameson didn’t linger. He scaled down the building and snaked his way back through the streets of Prague. And the entire time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

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