Life comes in clusters, clusters of solitude, then a cluster when there is hardly time to breathe.

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.

There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.

I sometimes imagine that as one grows older one comes to live a role which as a young person one merely 'played.

There were moments ... when it seemed that all one could be asked was just to keep the ashtrays clean, the bed made, the wastebaskets emptied, as if one never got to the real things because of the constant exhausting battle to keep ordinary life from falling apart.

I long for the bulbs to arrive, for the early autumn chores are melancholy, but the planting of bulbs is the work of hope and is always thrilling.

Go rich in poverty. Go rich in poetry. This nothingness is plentitude.