I had a dog who loved flowers. Briskly she went through the fields, yet paused for the honeysuckle or the rose, her dark head and her wet nose touching the face of every one with its petals of silk with its fragrance rising into the air where the bees, their bodies heavy with pollen hovered - and easily she adored every blossom not in the serious careful way that we choose this blossom or that blossom the way we praise or don't praise - the way we love or don't love - but the way we long to be - that happy in the heaven of earth - that wild, that loving.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, Stay awhile.

My first two books are out of print and, okay, they can sleep there comfortably. It's early work, derivative work.

Look, hasn't my body already felt like the body of a flower?

Love, love, love, says Percy. And hurry as fast as you can along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust. Then, go to sleep. Give up your body heat, your beating heart. Then, trust.

I have trouble with some books because I'm so much in agreement with them I'd rather just sit in the grass myself.

I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was alive for a little while.