Icebergs behoove the soul (both being self-made from elements least visible) to see themselves: fleshed, fair, erected, indivisible.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.

I am sorry for people who can't write letters. But I suspect also that you and I ... love to write them because it's kind of like working without really doing it.

Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)

Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.

The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.