Why is life speeded up so? Why are things so terribly, unbearably precious that you can't enjoy them but can only wait breathless in dread of their going?

The plane seems exultant now, even arrogant. We did it, we did it! We're up, above you. We were dependant on you just now, prisoners fawning on you for favors, for wind and light. But now, we are free. We are up! We are off! Like someone singing ecstatically, climbing, soaring- a sustained note of power and joy.

Fame is a kind of death because it arrests life around the person in the public eye.

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

Not knowing how to feed the spirit, we try to muffle its demands in distraction...What matters is that one be for a time inwardly attentive.

Why do progress and beauty have to be so opposed?

The ball of rumor and criticism, once it starts rolling, is difficult to stop.