I made myself into an envelope into which I could thrust my work deep, lick the flap, seal it from everybody.

Writing is a strong easement for perplexity. My life is a map, spread out with all the rivers and hills showing.

I wonder why we are always sort of ashamed of our best parts and try to hide them. We don't mind ridicule of our 'sillinesses' but of our 'sobers'.

You come into the world alone and you go out of the world alone yet it seems to me you are more alone while living than even going and coming.

The foolish square calves pretend to be frightened of our train. Bluffers! Haven't they seen it every day since they were born? It's just an excuse to shake the joy out of their heels.

Perfectly ordered disorder designed with a helter-skelter magnificence.

Indians do not hinder the progress of their dead by embalming or tight coffining. When the spirit has gone they give the body back to the earth. the earth welcomes the body-coaxes new life and beauty from it, hurries over what men shudder at. Lovely tender herbage bursts from the graves, swiftly, exulting over corruption.