I write in my own journal when something extraordinary or funny happens. And there's some nice imagery in there. I don't think of what to do with it.

It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave. It is hard to desecrate a grove and change your mind. The very holy mountains are keeping mum. We doused the burning bush and cannot rekindle it; we are lighting matches in vain under every green tree.

Nature is, above all, profligate. Don't believe them when they tell you how economical and thrifty nature is, whose leaves return to the soil. Wouldn't it be cheaper to leave them on the tree in the first place? This deciduous business alone is a radical scheme, the brainchild of a deranged manic-depressive with limitless capital. Extravagance! Nature will try anything once.

We are here on the planet only once, and might as well get a feel for the place.

At night I read and write, and things I have never understood become clear; I reap the harvest of the rest of the year's planting

No one escapes the wilderness on the way to the promised land.

I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you.