In the dark I rest, unready for the light which dawns day after day, eager to be shared. Black silk, shelter me. I need more of the night before I open eyes and heart to illumination. I must still grow in the dark like a root not ready, not ready at all.

Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.

In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.

Mediocrity is perhaps due not so much to lack of imagination as to lack of faith in the imagination, lack of the capacity for this abandon.

The artist must create himself or be born again.

We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.

We must breathe time as fishes breathe water.