You have stirred the soil with your plow, my friend. It will never be the same again.

Time, designing slowly, swiftly; Time, destroying slowly, swiftly; Time holding, possessing the earth in its tender indifference.

You have stirred the soil with your plow, my friend. It will never be the same again.

There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable.

A sickness ... defines margins, crystallizes the shape of things.

once a man had thrust his hands into the soil and knew the grit of it between his teeth, he felt something rise within him that was not of his day or generation, but had persisted through birth and death from a time beyond recall.

A false vision was better than none.