enter into the life of the trees. Know your relationship and understand their language, unspoken, unwritten talk. Answer back to them with their own dumb magnificence, soul words, earth words, the God in you responding to the God in them.

There was neither horizon, cloud, nor sound; of that pink, spread silence even I had become part, belonging as much to sky as to earth.

Art is an aspect of God and there is only one God, but different people see Him in different ways. Though He is always the same He doesn't always look the same.

You always feel when you look it straight in the eye that you could have put more into it, could have let yourself go and dug harder.

Be careful that you do not write or paint anything that is not your own, that you don't know in your own soul.

What a splendid time Woo must have had.

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