Yesterday I sat in a field of violets for a long time perfectly still, until I really sank into it - into the rhythm of the place, I mean - then when I got up to go home I couldn't walk quickly or evenly because I was still in time with the field.

I had the feeling . . . that my experience was very different from other people’s. (Are we all under this illusion?)

Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim.

If it is a woman's function to give, she must be replenished, too.

Only love can be divided endlessly and still not diminish.

... writing letters is thinking, just as talking to you is thinking.

The nicest gifts are those left, nameless and quiet, unburdened with love, or vanity, or the desire for attention.