Once we have learned to read, meaning of words can somehow register without consciousness.

The mind I love must have wild places.

Wind moving through grass so that the grass quivers. This moves me with an emotion I don't even understand.

Every time one leaves anywhere, something precious, which ought not to be killed, is left to die.

To be alive and to be a ‘writer’ is enough.

there does seem to me something sad in life. It is hard to say what it is. I don't mean the sorrow that we all know, like illness and poverty and death. No, it is something different. It is there, deep down, deep down, part of one, like one's breathing.

How idiotic civilization is! Why be given a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare fiddle?