Lord make me satisfied with small things. Make me content to live on the outside of life. God make me love the rind!

The dead elm leaves hung like folded bats.

The things we felt most are hardest to put into words. Hate is always easier to speak of than love. How shall I make love go through the sieve of words and come out something besides a pulp?

What is sanity, after all, except the control of madness?

The question we do not see when we are young is whether we own pride or are owned by it.

... love and fear increase together with a precision almost mathematical: the greater the love is then the greater the fear is.

Everything drops away, comes to be unimportant in the dark. It's like sleep almost. A freedom from self, from ugliness.