That will not bring back the things we love: the high, clear days and the
blue icecaps on the mountains; the lines of white
poplars fluttering in the wind, and the long white prayer flags
Nor shall we get back the smell of the beanfields; the
sweet, resinous smell of deodar wood burning, or
the whiff of a snow leopard at14,000 feet. Never. Never.
Never. Bruce Chatwin Introduction to Robert Byron's The Road to Oxiana.