I've been reading a lot lately about Indian captives. One woman who had been captured by the Indians and made a squaw was resentful when she was rescued because she'd found that there was a lot more work to do as the wife of a white man.

Whatever poetry that was in me was coming out in the form of constructing art books!

Broad-streeted Richmond . . . The trees in the streets are old trees used to living with people, Family trees that remember your grandfather's name.

As for what you're calling hard luck - well, we made New England out of it. That and codfish.

Basically when I'm walking I'm not consciously writing or intending anything. In the manner I have learned from meditation practice, I let things unfold.

Dreaming men are haunted men.

I admire the attention other writers can give to the world we're walking in.