Wrinkles here and there seem unimportant compared to the Gestalt of the whole person I have become in this past year.

We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.

One could go on revising a prose page forever whereas there is a point in a poem when one knows it is done forever.

There is no doubt that solitude is a challenge and to maintain balance within it a precarious business. But I must not forget that, for me, being with people or even with one beloved person for any length of time without solitude is even worse. I lose my center. I feel dispersed, scattered, in pieces. I must have time alone in which to mull over my encounter, and to extract its juice, its essence, to understand what has really happened to me as a consequence of it.

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.

For to be desperate is to discover strength. / We die of comfort and by conflict live.

I can understand people simply fleeing the mountainous effort Christmas has become... but there are always a few saving graces and finally they make up for all the bother and distress.