We who fly do so for the love of flying. We are alive in the air with this miracle that lies in our hands and beneath our feet.

Flying alone! Nothing gives such a sense of mastery over time over mechanism, mastery indeed over space, time, and life itself, as this.

A way of using words to say things which could not possibly be said in any other way, things which in a sense do not exist till they are born … in poetry.

The poetic myths are dead; and the poetic image, which is the myth of the individual, reigns in their stead.

We who fly do so for the love of flying. We are alive in the air with this miracle that lies in our hands and beneath our feet.

Selfhood begins with a walking away, And love is proved in letting go.

There's a kind of release And a kind of torment in every goodbye for every man.