It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance.

Whenever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God's speaking from the whirlwind, nature's old song, and dance.

We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence.

I think the dying pray at the last not "please," but "thank you," as a guest thanks his host at the door.

She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.

Your freedom as a writer is not freedom of expression in the sense of wild blurting; you may not let rip. It is life at its most free, if you are fortunate enough to be able to try it, because you select your materials, invent your task, and pace yourself.

Unfortunately, nature is very much a now-you-see-it, now-you-don't affair. A fish flashes, then dissolves in the water before my eyes like so much salt. Deer apparently ascend bodily into heaven; the brightest oriole fades into leaves.