Truth is neither ojectivity nor the balanced view; truth is a selfless subjectivity.

What will I do when I can no longer dig?

The writer must be able to revel and roll in the abundance of words; he must know not only the direct but also the secret power of a word. There are overtones and undertones to a word, and lateral echoes, too.

There was a rock in front of my hut, a tall, gray rock. By its looks it seemed to be well-disposed toward me.

But now it was spring again, and spring was almost unbearable for sensitive hearts. It drove creation to its utmost limits, it wafted its spice-laden breath even into the nostrils of the innocent.

The long, long road over the moors and up into the forest - who trod it into being first of all? Man, a human being, the first that came here. There was no path before he came.

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