I think of making love and making art as being very parallel. Even the most amateur attempt can be thrilling.

A career must be husbanded. Care must be taken. Everyday must bring some small bit of progress. How would an artist with any self-worth act? Act that way.

Love is not love if it is compelled by reason and driven by logic - love exists in spite of those things, not because of them. It is a emotion which needs no fuel to fire it or oxygen to feed it; if you have to look for the why, then stop looking; it was never there at all.

When writing becomes too dominant, it gets leached of its own power. We spend more and more time writing and we have less and less to write about.

All change can be expansive in potential. The choice is ours.

Doubt comes to the door in darkness, pretending to be alone and in need of your compassionate ear. But if you let him in, he'll bring his friends.

Our moods and insights are transitory. This current is a flow of grace moving us to our right livelihood, companions, destiny.