Off fall the wife, the mother, the lover, the teacher, and the violent artist takes over. I am I alone. I belong to no one but myself. I mate with no one but the spirit. I own no land, have no kin, no friend or enemy. I have no road but this one.

It is not so much the content of what one says as the way in which one says it. However important the thing you say, what's the good of it if not heard or, being heard, not felt?

A comforting acquaintance, hope, a contagious thing like spring, inebriating like lager.

Not just part of us becomes a teacher. It engages the whole self - the woman or man, wife or husband, mother or father, the lover, scholar or artist in you as well as the teacher earning money.

I am inclined to think that eating is a private thing and should be done alone, like other bodily functions.

Love has the quality of informing almost everything - even one's work.

There's no such thing beneath the heavens as conditions favorable to art. Art must crash through or perish.