Are you living just a little and calling that life?

Almost all of my many passionate interests, and my many changes of mind, came through books. Books prompted the many vows I made to myself.

Unless all ages and races of men have been deluded by the same mass hypnotist (who?), there seems to be such a thing as beauty, a grace wholly gratuitous.

Today is one of those excellent January partly cloudies in which light chooses an unexpected part of the landscape to trick out in gilt, and then the shadow sweeps it away. You know you're alive. You take huge steps, trying to feel the planet's roundness arc between your feet.

I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam.

The creative process obtains in all creative acts. So if I'm painting suddenly I'll see something that I didn't see before.

What do I make of all this texture? What does it mean about the kind of world in which I have been set down? The texture of the world, its filigree and scrollwork, means that there is the possibility for beauty here, a beauty inexhaustible in its complexity, which opens to my knock, which answers in me a call I do not remember calling, and which trains me to the wild and extravagant nature of the spirit I seek.