People who take photographs during their whole vacation won't remember their vacation. They'll only remember what photographs they took.

Our life seems cursed to be a wiggle merely, and a wandering without end.

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

The world did not have me in mind; it had no mind. It was a coincidental collection of things and people, of items, an I myself was one such item...the things in the world did not necessarily cause my overwhelming feelings; the feelings were inside me, beneath my skin, behind my ribs, withing my skull. They were even, to some extent, under my control.

Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed?

You can't test courage cautiously, so I ran hard and waved my arms hard, happy.

There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by. A life of good days lived in the senses is not enough. The life of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less; time is ample and its passage sweet. Who would call a day spent reading a good day? But a life spent reading -- that is a good life.