I find it an absolute pleasure to read travel guides, especially

Michel Houellebecq, with his somber and piercing gaze into the human condition, once confessed: “I find it an absolute pleasure to read travel guides, especially the Michelin guides, and their description of places I know I’ll probably never visit. I spend a large part of my life reading descriptions of restaurants.” At first, these words may appear curious, even trivial—what wisdom lies in reading about places one shall never touch, or meals one shall never taste? Yet beneath this confession lies an ancient truth: that the imagination itself is a kingdom vast and inexhaustible, and that longing, even without fulfillment, can be a source of beauty and meaning.

The travel guide, in Houellebecq’s hands, becomes more than a manual for the wanderer; it is a scripture of the unseen, a catalogue of wonders that speak to the spirit even from afar. To read of distant cities, of Parisian cafés or Kyoto teahouses, is to sip from the chalice of possibility, even when the body remains rooted in its daily place. The heart expands through words; the imagination voyages where the feet may never tread. Thus, there is pleasure not only in traveling, but in the dream of traveling.

So too with the Michelin guides—their careful descriptions of meals are not merely about food, but about life’s artistry, the poetry of taste, the celebration of craft. To read them without eating is akin to listening to the tale of Troy without wielding a sword: one may not fight, but one may still be moved, still be transformed by the grandeur of the telling. For in truth, not all joys are meant to be possessed. Some exist only to be contemplated, admired, and dreamed upon.

History itself gives us a witness to this truth. Consider the scholar Jorge Luis Borges, blind in his later years. Though his eyes could no longer see the cities and landscapes he once adored, he wandered endlessly in the labyrinths of books. He declared that paradise would be a kind of library. Like Houellebecq, Borges reminds us that to read of the world is, in its own way, to live in the world. One may not touch every stone of every city, but one may hold them all in the treasury of the mind.

This is not an escape, but an affirmation: the pleasure of reading descriptions of places and feasts unseen is a reminder that the human soul does not thrive only on possession, but also on imagination. Desire itself, when it does not embitter, can enrich. It is not necessary to stand in every city, nor to eat in every hall of fame; it is enough to let the thought of them widen the heart and sharpen the senses. The unseen nourishes us as surely as the seen, if we allow it to.

Thus, the lesson emerges: one need not consume everything, nor travel everywhere, to live richly. The world is too vast for a single life to grasp. Therefore, let us cultivate the art of contemplation as much as the art of acquisition. Read of distant lands, taste them in imagination, and allow them to stir gratitude for the wonders of creation, even if your feet never walk their soil. This is not lesser living, but another form of abundance.

Practically, this means making space in your life for imagined journeys. Read guides, histories, and tales of places and people unknown. Delight in the possibility rather than lament the impossibility. When you encounter what is beyond your reach, let it enrich your spirit instead of diminish your joy. Recognize that every description, every tale, is an invitation to grow larger within, even if outwardly you remain still.

And so, dear listener, heed Houellebecq’s wisdom: that it is no shame to dwell among words and descriptions, to find happiness in what the mind can grasp though the body cannot. For in truth, life is too short to conquer every road, but long enough to dream of them all. Let the unseen banquet feed your soul, and let your heart travel, even if your body stays. This too is a form of pleasure, and this too is a way to live deeply.