A word can be transformed into a coulour, light, a smell; it is the writer's task to use it in such a way that it serves, never fails, can never be ignored.

There is nothing like being left alone again, to walk peacefully with oneself in the woods. To boil one's coffee and fill one's pipe, and to think idly and slowly as one does it.

I can't even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace.

In my solitude, many miles from men and houses, I am in a childishly happy and carefree state of mind, which you are incapable of understanding unless someone explains it to you

I stood in the lee of an overhanging rock and thought of many things.

What will I do when I can no longer dig?

I have gone to the forest.