A man without a horse is like a man without a weapon: stunted and naked.

The world is full of burled and gnarly knobs on which you can hang a metaphysical system. If you must.

The rebel is doomed to a violent death. The rest of us can look forward to sedated expiration in a coma inside an oxygen tent, with tubes inserted in every bodily orifice.

All we have, it seems to me, is the beauty of art and nature and life, and the love which that beauty inspires.

A pretty girl can do no wrong.

There are some places so beautiful they can make a grown man break down and weep.

There are no vacant lots in nature.