Dying--shucks! If you kin handle the living, what's to be afraid of the dying?

Reality is not a function of the event as event, but of the relationship of that event to past, and future, events.

Poets, we know, are terribly sensitive people, and in my observation one of the things they are most sensitive about is money.

...by the time we understand the pattern we are in, the definition we are making for ourselves, it's too late to break out of the box. We can only live in terms of the definition, like the prisoner in the cage in which he cannot lie or stand or sit, hung up in justice to be viewed by the populace. Yet the definition we have made of ourselves is ourselves. To break out of it, we must make a new self. But how can the self make a new self when the selfness which it is, is the only substance from which the new self can be made?

That summer we had been absolutely alone, together, even when people were around, the only inhabitants of the kind of floating island or magic carpet which being in love is.

How life is strange and changeful, and the crystal is in the steel at the point of fracture, and the toad bears a jewel in its forehead, and the meaning of moments passes like the breeze that scarcely ruffles the leaf of the willow.

There was nothing particularly wrong with them; they were just the ordinary garden variety of human garbage.