Art being so much greater than ourselves, it will not give up once it has taken hold.

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

Perfectly ordered disorder designed with a helter-skelter magnificence.

Let me not fuss and fret at my incompetence but be still and know that Thou art God.

Oh, Spring! I want to go out and feel you and get inspiration. My old things seem dead. I want fresh contacts, more vital searching.

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'.

Up came the sun, and drank the dew.