The self says, I am; The heart says, I am less; The spirit says, you are Nothing.

So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.

What's important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?

What falls away is always. And is near.

(I measure time by how a body sways.)

Being, not doing, is my first joy.

Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.