Could two live that way? Could two live under the wild rose, and explore by the pond, so that the smooth mind of each is as everywhere present to the other, and as received and as unchallenged, as falling snow?

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.

The way we live our days, is the way we live our lives.

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

I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing.

Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain. But if we describe a word to compass these things, a world that is a long, brute game, then we bump against another mystery: the inrush of power and delight, the canary that sings on the skull.

Admire the world for never ending on you -- as you would an opponent, without taking your eyes away from him, or walking away.