Flowers and plants are silent presences. They nourish every sense except the ear.

We have to make myths of our lives, the point being that if we do, then every grief or inexplicable seizure by weather, woe, or work can-if we discipline ourselves and think hard enough-be turned to account, be made to yield further insight into what it is to be alive, to be a human being.

I find that when I have any appointment, even an afternoon one, it changes the whole quality of time. I feel overcharged. There is no space for what wells up from the subconscious; those dreams and images live in deep still water and simply submerge when the day gets scattered.

What we have not has made us what we are. / ... / What we are not drives us to consummation.

[In old age] there is a childlike innocence, often, that has nothing to do with the childishness of senility. The moments become precious . . .

A holiday gives one a chance to look backward and forward; to reset oneself by an inner compass.

I think that passion if really intense is always destructive if not to the two involved, always to other people.