We are one of many appearances of the thing called Life; we are not its perfect image, for it has no perfect image except Life, and life is multitudinous and emergent in the stream of time.

From the solitude of the wood, (Man) has passed to the more dreadful solitude of the heart.

Once in a lifetime, perhaps, one escapes the actual confines of the flesh. Once in a lifetime, if one is lucky, one so merges with sunlight and air and running water that whole eons, the eons that mountains and deserts know, might pass in a single afternoon without discomfort.

Each and all, we are riding into the dark. Even living, we cannot remember half the events of our own days.

I no longer cared about survival...I merely loved.

Every man contains within himself a ghost continent.

The great artist, whether he be musician, painter, or poet, is known for this absolute unexpectedness.