I feel we are all islands - in a common sea.

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.

Too many people, too many demands, too much to do; competent, busy, hurrying people - It just isn't living at all.

You can’t just write and write and put things in a drawer. They wither without the warm sun of someone else’s appreciation.

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

I think one must do the thing -- whatever it is (and it changes from time to time) -- that unites you to the flowing stream of the world. At any price, one must do it first. Otherwise one can do nothing, nothing at all. One is out of touch, out of grace.

The collector walks with blinders on; he sees nothing but the prize. In fact, the acquisitive instinct is incompatible with true appreciation of beauty.