It is curious how any making of order makes one feel mentally ordered, ordered inside.

Sometimes one has simply to endure a period of depression for what it may hold of illumination if one can live through it, attentive to what it exposes or demands.

making order out of disorder any time, anywhere, can be regarded as a sacrament.

I am not a greedy person except about flowers and plants, and then I become fanatically greedy.

The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.

Do we always make our freedom out of someone else's bondage?

I know you have much to bear with in me, and I really do sometimes in you, but I have never looked at friendship in a deep sense as easy or entirely comfortable.