What the Man-Moth fears most he must do.

Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?

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

I've never written the things I'd like to write that I've admired all my life. Maybe one never does.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free.

Heaven is not like flying or swimming, but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare.