It could be that our faithlessness is a cowering cowardice born of our very smallness, a massive failure of imagination... If we were to judge nature by common sense or likelihood, we wouldnt believe the world existed.

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

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.

We live in all we seek.

Writers serve as the memory of a people. They chew over our public past.

The interior life is often stupid.

We live half our waking lives and all of our sleeping lives in some private, useless, and insensible waters we never mention or recall.