Many writers do little else but sit in small rooms recalling the real world.

Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we sense them.

It has always been a happy thought to me that the creek runs on all night, new every minute, whether I wish it or know it or care, as a closed book on a shelf continues to whisper to itself its own inexhaustible tale. So many things have been shown so to me on these banks, so much light has illumined me by reflection here where the water comes down, that I can hardly believe that this grace never flags, that the pouring from ever-renewable sources is endless, impartial, and free.

I had been chipping at the world idly, and had by accident uncovered vast and labyrinthine further worlds within it.

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.

The secret is not to write about what you love best, but about what you, alone, love at all.

The courage of children and beasts is a function of innocence.