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

Being very rich as far as I am concerned is having a margin. The margin is being able to give.

I see a certain order in the universe and math is one way of making it visible.

The only way through pain…is to absorb, probe, understand exactly what it is and what it means. To close the door on pain is to miss the chance for growth.

Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons.

It takes a long time for words to become thought.

Gardening is the instrument of grace.