The price of being oneself is so high and involves so much ruthlessness toward others (or what looks like ruthlessness in our duty-bound culture) that very few people can afford it.

When it comes to the important things one is always alone.

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

Light is snow sifted / To an abstraction.

Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self.

What is there to do when people die - people so dear and rare - but bring them back by remembering?

Anyone who is going to be a writer knows enough at fifteen to write several novels.