What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.

I know only enough of God to want to worship him, by any means ready to hand.

The mind itself is an art object ... The mind is a blue guitar on which we improvise the song of the world.

You empty yourself and wait, listening. After a time you hear it: There is nothing there...You feel the world's word as a tension, a hum, a single chorused note everywhere the same. This is it: This hum is the silence.

Nothing moves a woman so deeply as the boyhood of the man she loves.

I still try to keep my eyes open. I'm always on the lookout for antlion traps in sandy soil, monarch pupae near milkweed, skipper larvae in locust leaves. These things are utterly common, and I've not seen one

Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff.