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.

An abyss seems to have opened between the intellectual cosmopolites of culture and the people, hungry for word and meaning.

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

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

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

Suddenly many movements are going on within me, many things are happening, there is an almost unbearable sense of sprouting, of bursting encasements, of moving kernels, expanding flesh.

Writing is primarily a sensuous and creative expression of life.