You are either born a writer or you are not.

The world to come must be composed of what is past. No other material is at hand.

What he could bear in the waking world he could not by night and he sat awake for fear the dream would return.

In dreams we stand in this great democracy of the possible and there we are right pilgrims indeed. There we go forth to meet what we shall meet.

Men say they only learn this but he said that no creature can learn that which his heart has no shape to hold.

He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the words and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.

The world was new each day for God so made it daily. Yet it contained within it all the evils as before, no more, no less.