The yard was full of tomato plants about to ripen, and mint, mint, everything smelling of mint, and one fine old tree that I loved to sit under on those cool perfect starry California October nights unmatched anywhere in the world.

Man lowers his head and lunges into civilization, forgetting the days of his infancy when he sought truth in a snowflake or a stick. Man forgets the wisdom of the child.

It ain't whatcha write, it's the way atcha write it.

Ray, what you got to do is go climb a mountain.

The details are the life of it, I insist, say everything on your mind, don’t hold back, don’t analyze or anything as you go along, say it out.

Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea.

Because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars.