Three-fourths of philosophy and literature is the talk of people trying to convince themselves that they really like the cage they were tricked into entering.

Clambering up the Cold Mountain path, The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on: The long gorge choked with scree and boulders, The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass. The moss is slippery, though there's been no rain The pine sings, but there's no wind. Who can leap the world's ties And sit with me among the white clouds?

The best thing you can do for the planet is to stay home.

All this new stuff goes on top turn it over, turn it over wait and water down from the dark bottom turn it inside out let it spread through Sift down even. Watch it sprout. A mind like compost.

A reading is a kind of communion. The poet articulates the semi-known for the tribe.

Why should the peculiarities of human consciousness be the narrow standard by which other creatures are judged?

Range after range of mountains. Year after year after year. I am still in love.