The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?

So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.

What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.

What happens in the heart simply happens.

...imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic.

The wolf is living for the earth.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.