Perhaps I am still very much of an American. That is to say, naïve, optimistic, gullible. In the eyes of a European, what am I but an American to the core, an American who exposes his Americanism like a sore. Like it or not, I am a product of this land of plenty, a believer in superabundance, a believer in miracles.

Writing is its own reward.

All my Calvaries were rosy crucifixions, pseudo-tragedies to keep the fires of hell burning brightly for the real sinners who are in danger of being forgotten.

...the wise man knows that every experience is to be viewed as a blessing.

For there is only one great adventure and that is inward toward the self, and for that, time nor space nor even deeds matter.

I like the one about the little soulworms that fly out of the nest for the resurrection.

Do not be duped by little duties. Do not be a chore man all your days.