The body repeats the landscape. They are the source of each other and create each other.

The people always know that some of the grain will be good, some of the crop will be saved, some will return and bear the strength of the kernel, that from the bloodiest year some survive to outfox the frost.

It was the bumble bee and the butterfly who survived, not the dinosaur.

You can tell by looking at most people that the world remains a stone to them and a closed door.

The history of an oppressed people is hidden in the lies and the agreed myth of its conquerors.

Lie in the sun with the child in your flesh shining like a jewel. Dream and sing, pagan, wise in your vitals. Stand still like a fat budding tree, like a stalk of corn athrob and aglisten in the heat. Lie like a mare panting with the dancing feet of colts against her sides. Sleep at night as the spring earth. Walk heavily as a wheat stalk at its full time bending towards the earth waiting for the reaper. Let your life swell downward so you become like a vase, a vessel. Let the unknown child knock and knock against you and rise like a dolphin within.

A good civilization gives the greatest possible scope to the common passions and makes them intelligible among the great number of people.