Over the whole earth- this infinitely small globe that possesses all we know of sunshine and bird song- an unfamiliar blight is creeping: man- man, who has become at last a planetary disease and who would, if his technology yet permitted, pass this infection to another star.

A man who has once looked with the archaeological eye will never see quite normally. He will be wounded by what other men call trifles. It is possible to refine the sense of time until an old shoe in the bunch grass or a pile of nineteenth century beer bottles in an abandoned mining town tolls in one's head like a hall clock.

If it should turn out that we have mishandled our own lives as several civilizations before us have done, it seems a pity that we should involve the violet and the tree frog in our departure.

It was the failures who had always won, but by the time they won they had come to be called successes.

God knows how many things a man misses by becoming smug and assuming that matters will take their own course.

I am what I am and cannot be otherwise because of the shadows.

The freedom to create is somehow linked with facility of access to those obscure regions below the conscious mind.