There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return. I suspect that whenever I articulate my thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden.

If we reduce social life to the smallest possible unit we will find that there is no social life in the company of one.

I look back into past history, the stored experiences or products of the imagination. I look no further forward than the evening.

She seemed to belong to that pagan, primitive kingdom of birds and forests where everything was infinitely abundant, wild, blooming, and royal in its perpetual decay, death, and rebirth; illicit and clashing with the human world.

Going around under an umbrella interferes with one's looking up at the sky.

Homelessness is a part of our American system. There should be nothing wrong with this condition as long as the individual is not sentenced to unnecessary suffering and punishment.

I always have a sense of trembling, but so does a compass, after all.