The mountains are great stone bells; they clang together like nuns. Who shushed the stars? There are a thousand million galaxies easily seen in the Palomar reflector; collisions between and among them do, of course, occur. But these collisions are very long and silent slides. Billions of stars sift amont each other untouched, too distant even to be moved, heedless as always, hushed. The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper; I cannot quite make it out. But God knows I have tried.

Put yourself out of your misery.

The way you live your days is the way you live your life.

Johnston's books are beautifully written and among the funniest I have ever read.

It's a little silly to finally learn how to write at this age. But I long ago realized I was secretly sincere.

Why do we people in churches seem like cheerful, brainless tourists on a packaged tour of the Absolute?

The mind itself is an art object ... The mind is a blue guitar on which we improvise the song of the world.