We wake, if ever at all, to mystery.

For writing a first draft requires from the writer a peculiar internal state which ordinary life does not induce. ... how to set yourself spinning?

Nature's silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.

We sleep to time's hurdy-gurdy; we wake, if ever we wake, to the silence of God. And then, when we wake to the deep shores of time uncreated, then when the dazzling dark breaks over the far slopes of time, then it's time to toss things, like our reason, and our will; then it's time to break our necks for home. There are no events but thoughts and the heart's hard turning, the heart's slow learning where to love and whom. The rest is merely gossip, and tales for other times.

You search, you break your heart, your back, your brain, and then-and only then-it is handed to you.

How you spend your days is how you spend your life.

We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence.