It was a morning in early summer. A silver haze shimmered and trembled over the lime trees. The air was laden with their fragrance. The temperature was like a caress. I remember - I need not recall - that I climbed up a tree stump and felt suddenly immersed in Itness. I did not call it by that name. I had no need for words. It and I were one.

I would willingly stand at street corners, hat in hand, begging passerby to drop their unused minutes into it.

Who will free me from hurry, flurry, the feeling of a crowd pushing behind me, of being hustled and crushed? How can I regain even for a minute the feeling of ample leisure I had during my early, my creative years? Then I seldom felt fussed, or hurried. There was time for work, for play, for love, the confidence that if a task was not done at the appointed time, I easily could fit it into another hour. I used to take leisure for granted, as I did time itself.

Government is the art of the momentary feasible, of the least bad attainable, and not of the rationally most desirable.

I am only a picture-taster, the way others are wine-or tea-tasters.

Literature in its most comprehensive sense is the autobiography of humanity.

Miracles happen to those who believe in them.