It is fatal to one's artistic life to talk about something that is in process.

If woman is inconstant, good, I am faithful to ebb and flow, I fall in season and now is a time of ripening.

I'll dig in into my days, having come here to live, not to visit. Grey is the price of neighboring with eagles, of knowing a mountain's vast presence, seen or unseen.

Both art and faith are dependent on imagination; both are ventures into the unknown.

But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.

There comes a time when only anger is love.

It is fatal to one's artistic life to talk about something that is in process.