When I first read the words 'introvert' and 'extrovert' when I was 10, I thought I was both.

The universe is illusion merely, not one speck of it real, and we are not only its victims, falling always into or smashed by a planet slung by the sun-but also its captives, bound by the mineral-made ropes of our senses.

The creatures I seek do not want to be seen.

I saw in a blue haze all the world poured flat and pale between the mountains

Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff.

As a thinker I keep discovering that beauty itself is as much a fact, and a mystery...I consider nature's facts -- its beautiful and grotesque forms and events -- in terms of the import to thought and their impetus to the spirit. In nature I find grace tangled in a rapture with violence; I find an intricate landscape whose forms are fringed in death; I find mystery, newness, and a kind of exuberant, spendthrift energy.

On plenty of days the writer can write three or four pages, and on plenty of other days he concludes he must throw them away.