Just once I wanted a task that required all the joy I had. Day after day I had noticed that if I waited long enough, my strong unexpressed joy would dwindle and dissipate inside me, like a fire subsiding . . . . Just this once I wanted to let it rip.

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

The irrational haunts the metaphysical.

You can serve or you can sing, and wreck your heart in prayer, working the world's hard work.

There must be bands of enthusiasts for everything on earth-fanatics who shared a vocabulary, a batch of technical skills and equipment, and, perhaps, a vision of some single slice of the beauty and mystery of things, of their complexity, fascination, and unexpectedness.

A schedule defends from chaos and whim. A net for catching days.