Go for a short walk in a soft rain - lovely - so many wild flowers startling me through the woods and a lawn sprinkled with dandelions, like a night with stars. And through it all the sound of soft rain like the sound of innumerable earthworms stirring in the ground.

Grief can't be shared. Everyone carries it alone. His own burden in his own way.

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.

I believe that true identity is found . . . in creative activity springing from within. It is found, paradoxically, when one loses oneself. Woman can best refind herself in some kind of creative activity of her own.

Communication with another person -- wasn't it the realest thing in life?

Yesterday's fairy tale is today's fact. The magician is only one step ahead of his audience.

the final lesson of learning to be independent - widowhood ... is the hardest lesson of all.