If industrial man continues to multiply his numbers and expand his operations he will succeed in his apparent intention, to seal himself off from the natural and isolate himself within a synthetic prison of his own making.

A critic is to an author as a fungus to an oak.

There's nothing so obscene and depressing as an American Christmas.

Belief? What do I believe in? I believe in sun. In rock. In the dogma of the sun and the doctrine of the rock. I believe in blood, fire, woman, rivers, eagles, storm, drums, flutes, banjos, and broom-tailed horses.

A good writer must have more than vin rosé in his veins, use more than Chablis for ink.

I hold no preference among flowers, so long as they are wild, free, spontaneous.

The night I filled an inside straight: Even a blind hog's gonna root up an acorn once in a while.