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

A word has power in and of itself. It comes from nothing into sound and meaning; it gives origin to all things.

Your imagination comes to life, and this, you think, is where Creation was begun.

Coyotes have the gift of seldom being seen; they keep to the edge of vision and beyond, loping in and out of cover on the plains and highlands. And at night, when the whole world belongs to them, they parley at the river with the dogs, their higher, sharper voices full of authority and rebuke. They are an old council of clowns, and they are listened to.

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.

I sometimes think the contemporary white American is more culturally deprived than the Indian.

Anything is bearable if you can make a story out of it.