Self-consciousness is the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies.

I have since only rarely seen the tree with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.

Write about winter in the summer.

Put yourself out of your misery.

Nothing on earth is more gladdening than knowing we must roll up our sleeves and move back the boundaries of the humanly possible once more.

Write as if you are dying.

We wake, if ever at all, to mystery.