The irrational haunts the metaphysical.

It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping God may wake someday and take offense, or the waking God may draw us out to where we can never return.

Landscape consists in the multiple, overlapping intricacies and forms that exist in a given space at a moment in time.

Experiencing the present purely is being empty and hollow; you catch grace as a man fills his cup under a waterfall.

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

The dear, stupid body is as easily satisfied as a spaniel.

The mountains are great stone bells; they clang together like nuns. Who shushed the stars? There are a thousand million galaxies easily seen in the Palomar reflector; collisions between and among them do, of course, occur. But these collisions are very long and silent slides. Billions of stars sift amont each other untouched, too distant even to be moved, heedless as always, hushed. The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper; I cannot quite make it out. But God knows I have tried.