Krakauer, Prossimo alla morte

S.O.S. Ho bisogno del vostro aiuto. Sono malato, prossimo alla morte, e troppo debole per andarmene a piedi. Sono solo, non è uno scherzo. In nome di Dio, vi prego, rimanete per salvarmi. Sono nei dintorni a raccogliere bacche e tornerò stasera. Grazie. Chris McCandless. Agosto?

Krakauer, Jon. Nelle Terre Estreme. 25a ed. Exploits. Milano: Corbaccio, 2013.

Thicknesse Philip, Post-House, St. George

Post-House, St. George, six leagues from Lyons
I'm particular in dating this letter, in hopes that every English traveller may avoid the place I write from, by either Hopping fhort, or going beyond it ; as it is the only house of reception for travellers in the village, and the worst I have met with in my whole journey.
Thicknesse, Philip. A Year’s Journey through France, and Part of Spain. London: Printed for W. Brown, 1789.

Twain Mark, Washoe wind

But, seriously, a Washoe wind is by no means a trifling matter. It blows flimsy houses down, lifts shingle roofs occasionally, rolls up tin ones like sheet music, now and then blows a stage-coach over and spills the passengers; and tradition says the reason there are so many bald people there is, that the wind blows the hair off their heads while they are looking skyward after their hats. Carson streets seldom look inactive on summer afternoons, because there are so many citizens skipping around their escaping hats, like chambermaids trying to head off a spider.
Twain, Mark. Roughing It. Toronto: Musson, 1899.

Thicknesse Philip, Avoid the place

Post-House, St. George, six leagues from Lyons
I'm particular in dating this letter, in hopes that every English traveller may avoid the place I write from, by either Hopping fhort, or going beyond it ; as it is the only house of reception for travellers in the village, and the worst I have met with in my whole journey.

Thicknesse, Philip. A year’s journey through France, and part of Spain. London: Printed for W. Brown, 1789.

Twain Mark, Turkish lunch

I never shall want another Turkish lunch. The cooking apparatus was in the little lunch room, near the bazaar, and it was all open to the street. The cook was slovenly, and so was the table, and it had no cloth on it. The fellow took a mass of sausage-meat and coated it round a wire and laid it on a charcoal fire to cook. When it was done, he laid it aside and a dog walked sadly in and nipped it. He smelt it first, and probably recognized the remains of a friend. The cook took it away from him and laid it before us. Jack said, "I pass" - he plays euchre sometimes - and we all passed in turn. Thethe cook baked a broad, flat, wheaten cake, greased it well with the sausage, and started towards us with it. It dropped in the dirt, and he picked it up and polished it on his breeches, and laid it before us. Jack said, "I pass". We all passed. He put some eggs in a frying pan, and stood pensively prying slabs of meat from between his teeth with a fork. Then he used the fork to turn the eggs with - and brought them along. Jack said " Pass again". All followed suit. We did not know what to do, and so we ordered a new ration of sausage. The cook got out his wire, apportioned a proper amount of sausage-meat, spat it on his hands and fell to work ! This time, with one accord, we all passed out. We paid and left. That is all I learned about Turkish lunches. A Turkish lunch is good, no doubt, but it has its little drawbacks.

Twain, Mark. Innocents abroad. Hartford: American Pub. Co., 1881.

Hunt Jackson Helen, Veal and eggs

Could we have trout? No. Chicken? No. Beefsteak ? No. What could we have ? Veal and eggs. The strangers from Gastein had eaten up everything else which the Bockstein inn possessed. Veal and eggs are the two staple delights of the German stomach; the veal steaming with fat and mustard, and the eggs horrible with butter and garlic. Ugh 1 All my life I shall remember the egg-salad which dear Marie added to our dinner yesterday, and of which I tasted, to appear civil, but was positively obliged to swallow hastily, like calomel, by help of great mouthfuls of beer. I thought I had tasted of bad things in Italy, but I give Germany the unquestioned palm.

Hunt Jackson, Helen. Bits of travel. Boston: J.R. Osgood, 1874.