So many things we love are you!

Nothing feeds the center of being so much as creative work. The curtain of mechanization has come down between the mind and the hand.

There is no harvest for the heart alone. The seed of love must be eternally re-sown.

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

When I cannot write a poem, I bake biscuits and feel just as pleased.

... not only is life put in new patterns from the air, but it is somehow arrested, frozen into form. (The leaping hare is caught in a marble panel.) A glaze is put over life. There is no flaw, no crack in the surface; a still reservoir, no ripple on its face. Looking down from the air that morning, I felt that stillness rested like a light over the earth. The waterfalls seemed frozen solid; the tops of the trees were still; the river hardly stirred, a serpent gently moving under its shimmering skin.

People "died" all the time. . . . Parts of them died when they made the wrong kinds of decisions-decisions against life. Sometimes they died bit by bit until finally they were just living corpses walking around. If you were perceptive you could see it in their eyes; the fire had gone out. . . you always knew when you made a decision against life. The door clicked and you were safe inside-safe and dead.