Variety is the pledge that matter makes to living things.

Much of life becomes background, but it is the province of art to throw buckets of light into the shadows and make life new again.

When you consider something like death, after which (there being no news flash to the contrary) we may well go out like a candle flame, then it probably doesn't matter if we try too hard, are awkward sometimes, care for one another too deeply, are excessively curious about nature, are too open to experience, enjoy a nonstop expense of the senses in an effort to know life intimately and lovingly.

If a mind is just a few pounds of blood, urea, and electricity, how does it manage to contemplate itself, worry about its soul, do time-and-motion studies, admire the shy hooves of a goat, know that it will die, enjoy all the grand and lesser mayhems of the heart ?

Though we marry as adults, we don't marry adults. We marry children who have grown up and still rejoice in being children, especially if we're creative.

Above all, we ask the poet to teach us a way of seeing.

We live on the leash of our senses. There is no way in which to understand the world without first detecting it through the radar-net of our senses.