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

We New Yorkers see more death and violence than most soldiers do, grow a thick chitin on our backs, grimace like a rat and learn to do a disappearing act. Long ago we outgrew the need to be blowhards about our masculinity; we leave that to the Alaskans and Texans, who have more time for it.

There were periods during my childhood when I stammered so badly I couldn't talk at all.

There often seems to be a playfulness to wise people, as if either their equanimity has as its source this playfulness or the playfulness flows from equanimity; and they can persuade other people who are in a state of agitation to calm down and smile.

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

It would be hard to define chaos better than as a world where children decide they don't want to live.

Summer is when we believe, all of a sudden, that if we just walked out the back door and kept on going long enough and far enough we would reach the Rocky Mountains.