I was brooding, boy. Than which there is no richer pastime. It muffles one with rotting plumes. It gives forth sullen music. It is the smell of home.

Yet not with all of me am I in love. Too much of my own quietness is with me.

I am the wilderness lost in man.

In the presence of real tragedy you feel neither pain nor joy nor hatred, only a sense of enormous space and time suspended, the great doors open to black eternity, the rising across the terrible field of that last enormous, unanswerable question.

Life is too fleet for onomatopoeia.

Mount and begone. The world awaits you.

Why break the heart that never beat from love?