Some of us are darkness lovers. We do not dislike the early and late daylight of June, but we cherish the increasing dark of November, which we wrap around ourselves in the prosperous warmth of wood stove, oil and electric blanket. Inside our warmth we fold ourselves, partly tuber, partly bear, in the dark and its cold - around us, outside us, safely away from us. We tuck ourselves up in the comfort of cold's opposite, warming ourslves by thought of the cold, lighting ourselves by darkness's idea.

I wish you were that birch rising from the clump behind you, and I the gray oak alongside.

Less is more, in prose as in architecture.

Can build plane... Delivery about three months.

I want to sleep like the birds then wake to write you again without hope that you read me.

To grow old is to lose everything.

The greatest kindness would put a bullet in his bright eye.