Emerson, I am trying to live, as you said we must, the examined life. But there are days I wish there was less in my head to examine, not to speak of the busy heart.

If you have ever gone into the woods with me, I must love you very much.

Wherever I am, the world comes after me. It offers me its busyness. It does not believe that I do not want it. Now I understand why the old poets of China went so far and high into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

The challenge is to keep up with all the new poets at the same time I love the old ones.

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

I feel the terror of idleness, like a red thirst. Death isn't just an idea.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?