It is a time of quiet joy, the sunny morning. When the glittery dew is on the mallow weeds, each leaf holds a jewel which is beautiful if not valuable. This is no time for hurry or for bustle. Thoughts are slow and deep and golden in the morning.

My own journey started long before I left, and was over before I returned.

I've lived in good climate, and it bores the hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate.

Don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens - The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

A book is like a man - clever and dull, brave and cowardly, beautiful and ugly. For every flowering thought there will be a page like a wet and mangy mongrel, and for every looping flight a tap on the wing and a reminder that wax cannot hold the feathers firm too near the sun.

Man is the only kind of varmint sets his own trap, baits it, then steps in it.

You got a God. Don't make no difference if you don' know what he looks like.