Each man deciphers from the ancient alphabets of nature only those secrets that his own deeps possess the power to endow with meaning.

The secret, if one may paraphrase a savage vocabulary, lies in the egg of night.

It has been asserted that we are destined to know the dark beyond the stars before we comprehend the nature of our own journey.

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

It is a commonplace of all religious thought, even the most primitive, that the man seeking visions and insight must go apart from his fellows and love for a time in the wilderness.

Choices, more choices than we like afterward to believe, are made far backward in the innocence of childhood.

The creative element in the mind of man . . . emerges in as mysterious a fashion as those elementary particles which leap into momentary existence in great cyclotrons, only to vanish again like infinitesimal ghosts.