The face of the moose is as sad as the face of Jesus.

The sea isn't a place but a fact, and a mystery.

What can we do but keep on breathing in and out, modest and willing, and in our places?

Things take the time they take. don't worry. How many roads did St. Augustine follow before he became St. Augustine?

I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery.

I have a notebook with me all the time, and I begin scribbling a few words. When things are going well, the walk does not get anywhere; I finally just stop and write.

Today again I am hardly myself. It happens over and over.