Wanderer: You don't really feel that way about me you know. It's this body. . . she's pretty isn't she? Ian: She is. Melanie is a very pretty girl. Even beautiful. But pretty as she is, she is a stranger to me. She's not the one I. . . care about. Wanderer: It's this body. Ian: That's not true at all. It's not the face, but the expressions on it. It's not the voice, but what they say. It's not how you look like in that body, it's what you do with it. You are beautiful.
Pour out wine till I become a wanderer from myself; for in selfhood and existence I have felt only fatigue.
Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies From head to ears, and now from ears to eyes.
I had a wonderful childhood, but I was a wanderer from year one.
Vast is the power of cities to reclaim the wanderer.
A solitary being is by instinct a wanderer.
A pilgrim is a wanderer with purpose.
A wanderer is man from his birth. He was born in a ship On the breast of the river of Time.
I couldn't take my eyes off him. Like a desert wanderer afraid of mirages, I gazed at my oasis, but he was real.
Traditional photojournalists arrive with an idea of what they are going to produce or what the editor wants. I approach a subject very much as a street photographer and a wanderer, without preconceptions. I try to leave it extremely intuitive and exploratory.
They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, "Who are you really, wanderer?"-- and the answer you have to give no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: "Maybe I'm a king.
O Innocence, with laughing eyes! Thou art a cherub from the skies, A wanderer from heaven.
The only reason a road is good as every wanderer knows Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which one goes
I held you in my hands, Wanderer, and you were beautiful.
Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path. . .
Genius in the poet, like the nomad of Arabia, ever a wanderer, still ever makes a home where the well or the palm-tree invites it to pitch the tent. Perpetually passing out of himself and his own positive circumstantial condition of being into other hearts and into other conditions, the poet obtains his knowledge of human life by transporting his own life into the lives of others.
Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. The poem tells me it’s no big deal that I’m not like Snow. I can be another thing; I’m meant to be another thing.
Trust your luck, Taran Wanderer. But don't forget to put out your nets!
I am a wanderer passionately in love with life.
I, the soul called Wanderer, love you, human Ian. And that will never change, no matter what I might become.
