The punctuation of anniversaries is terrible, like the closing of doors, one after another between you and what you want to hold on to.

Beauty cannot disguise nor music melt A pain undiagnosable but felt.

Geniuses were like storms or cyclones, pulling everything into their path, sticks and stones and dust.

But I want first of all- in fact, as an end to these other desires- to be at peace with myself.

Perhaps middle-age is, or should be, a period of shedding shells; the shell of ambition, the shell of material accumulations and possessions, the shell of the ego.

One can get just as much exultation in losing oneself in a little thing as in a big thing. It is nice to think how one can be recklessly lost in a daisy.

One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much.