Without the gift of flowers and the infinite diversity of their fruits, man and bird, if they had continued to exist at all, would be today unrecognizable.

In the desert, an old monk had once advised a traveler, the voices of God and the Devil are scarcely distinguishable.

I once saw, on a flower pot in my own living room, the efforts of a field mouse to build a remembered field. I have lived to see this episode repeated in a thousand guises, and since I have spent a large portion of my life in the shade of a nonexistent tree I think I am entitled to speak for the field mouse.

It is frequently the tragedy of the great artist, as it is of the great scientist, that he frightens the ordinary man.

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 need is not really for more brains, the need is now for a gentler, a more tolerant people than those who won for us against the ice, the tiger and the bear. The hand that hefted the ax, out of some old blind allegiance to the past fondles the machine gun as lovingly. It is a habit man will have to break to survive, but the roots go very deep.

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