His books were part of him. Each year of his life, it seemed, his books became more and more a part of him. This room, thirty by twenty feet, and the walls of shelves filled with books, had for him the murmuring of many voices. In the books of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, and scores of others, he had found men of face and voice more real to him than many a man he had met for a smoke and a talk.

There is a wolf in me... - I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.

Every blunder behind us is giving a cheer for us, and only for those who were willing to fail are the dangers and splendors of life.

It was here we turned the coffee cups upside down. And your eyes and the moon swept the valley.

The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.

Poetry is a kinetic arrangement of static syllables.