All good things come by grace, and grace comes by art, and art does not come easy.

A river, though, has so many things to say that it is hard to know what it says to each of us.

We sat on the bank and the river went by. As always, it was making sounds to itself, and now it made sounds to us. It would be hard to find three men sitting side by side who knew better what a river was saying.

The hardest thing usually to leave behind, as was the case now, can loosely be called the conscience.

All good things come by grace, and grace comes by art, and art does not come easy.

As I get considerably beyond the biblical allotment of three score years and ten, I feel with increasing intensity that I can express my gratitude for still being around on the oxygen-side of the earth's crust only by not standing pat on what I have hitherto known and loved. While oxygen lasts, there are still new things to love, especially if compassion is a form of love.

At sunrise everything is luminous but not clear.