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

One does not meet oneself until one catches the reflection from an eye other than human.

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

Like the herd animals we are, we sniff warily at the strange one among us.

It is a funny thing what the brain will do with memories and how it will treasure them and finally bring them into odd juxtapositions with other things, as though it wanted to make a design, or get some meaning out of them, whether you want it or not, or even see it.

Primitives of our own species, even today are historically shallow in their knowledge of the past. Only the poet who writes speaks his message across the millennia to other hearts.

Some degree of withdrawal serves to nurture man's creative powers. The artist and the scientist bring out of the dark void, like the mysterious universe itself, the unique, the strange, the unexpected. Numerous observers have testified upon the loneliness of the process.