Magic things are fond of deceptions.

Very few people can write in a crowd. This is a very solitary occupation. I have known people more talented than me who never made it. And the primary reason was always that they couldn't stand to be alone for several hours a day. Any writer worth anything has mastered the art. The art of solitude.

The only authority I respect is the one that causes butterflies to fly south in fall and north in springtime.

Plato did claim that the unexamined life was not worth living. Oedipus Rex was not so sure.

Poetry, the best of it, is lunar and is concerned with the essential insanities. Journalism is solar (there are numerous newspapers named The Sun, none called The Moon) and is devoted to the inessential.

Once one pays some attention to something, then you begin to see evidence of it everywhere.

We approach the divine by enlarging our souls and lighting up our brains.