Because she favours solitude and indwelling, an artist can live a significantly more claustrophobic life that she had ever intended.

If we had the consciousness of a cat or a dog, we would have it in us to become perfect Zen masters. We could gnaw on a bone, take a nap, play with a spider until we killed it, get our litter just right, and be innocently and serenely present. Meaning would mean nothing to us, nor would we need it to mean anything. We would be free, and we would be spared. But, we are human beings, and we posses that odd duck – human consciousness.

The writer loves the fog as it pours in; he loves the sun when the fog pours out. The rest of California is Beach Boys country, but San Francisco has that moody thing going on, those blues notes wrapped in moisture, an atmosphere that tempers California dreaming and makes life more real. The fog brings reality, but it is still a California reality, one spent outdoors the whole year round.

Almost nothing beautiful or brilliant happens unless a person has thought about it a lot.

A long, deep breath is the equivalent of a full stop and the key to centering.

You can sweat by not practicing or you can pick up your clarinet. There's good sweat and there's bad sweat.

An artist must struggle to accept the shape of this universe - and achieve some important successes.