Everything in nature invites us constantly to be what we are.

I like big, open, spare landscapes. There's lots of room. Nobody bothers you... I feel as if I can think there.

Honesty is stronger medicine than sympathy, which may console but often conceals.

Fog rolled in like a form of sorrow. To live exiled from a place you have known intimately is to experience sensory deprivation. A wide-awake coma. ... The sea was a memory bank into which everything fell and was lost. I dove in but came out empty-handed.

We are often like rivers: careless and forceful, timid and dangerous, lucid and muddied, eddying, gleaming, still. Lovers, farmers, and artists have one thing in common, at least - a fear of 'dry spells,' dormant periods in which we do no blooming, internal droughts only the waters of imagination and psychic release can civilize.

Perhaps despair is the only human sin.

Walking is also an ambulation of mind.