My father was a painter and he taught art. He once said to me, 'I never knew an Indian child who could not draw.'

Her name is Ago, and she belonged to the last culture to evolve in North America.

I wonder if, in the dark night of the sea, the octopus dreams of me.

It's a landscape that has to be seen to be believed. And, as I say on occasion, it may have to be believed in order to be seen.

There was only the dark infinity in which nothing was. And something happened. At the distance of a star something happened, and everything began. The Word did not come into being, but it was. It did not break upon the silence, but it was older than the silence and the silence was made of it.

To look upon that landscape in the early morning, with the sun at your back, is to lose the sense of proportion.

Words were medicine; they were magic and invisible. They came from nothing into sound and meaning. They were beyond price; they could neither be bought nor sold.