True solitude is a din of birdsong, seething leaves, whirling colors, or a clamor of tracks in the snow.

Henry David Thoreau, who never earned much of a living or sustained a relationship with any woman that wasn't brotherly -- who lived mostly under his parents' roof . . . who advocated one day's work and six days "off" as the weekly round and was considered a bit of a fool in his hometown . . . is probably the American writer who tells us best how to live comfortably with our most constant companion, ourselves.

Many people have believed that they were Chosen, but none more baldly than the Texans.

Country people tend to consider that they have a corner on righteousness and to distrust most manifestations of cleverness, while people in the city are leery of righteousness but ascribe to themselves all manner of cleverness.

A mountain with a wolf on it stands a little taller.

There are two kinds of writers: hustlers and sanctimonious hustlers.

Poetry is engendered in solitude, so what better meter for it than the clip of a buckskin horse?