Or do such Sisyphean philosophies—that “the road is life”—turn out to be bourgeois luxuries indulged by those safe enough to pretend this is all there is? Does the hunger and hope of the migrant show us something more fundamentally human? Maybe our craving for rest, refuge, arrival, home is a hunger that can’t be edited—the heart an obstinate palim

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Our flight soon took us over the Grand Canyon—the real thing, not a simulacrum—and not a single passenger opened a window shade to catch a glimpse of it, or of New York City, hours later, as we descended at sunset