We are each a dozen people who were all the same child.

There is in every artist's studio a scrap heap of discarded works in which the artist's discipline prevailed against his imagination.

It is usually the case that people who know you better than you know yourself think you're a pretty good person.

Though confined to our destiny, we do get to pick the color scheme.

There is part of us that stands in quiet witness to what we do, taking notes, waiting for a solitary moment to bring up the subject.

If there be no God, then what is truth but the average of all lies.

As a gardener, I wonder if flowers really can't speak or just exercise unfailing good judgment in the matter.