The wind is us-- it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields.

I just live one day at a time. That's my new theory in life.

It’s better to look at the sky than live there

Any work of art, provided it springs from a sincere motivation to further understanding between people, is an act of faith and therefore is an act of love.

I haven't anything against whores, except this: some of them may have an honest tongue but they all have dishonest hearts.

Never demean yourself by talking back to a critic, never. Write those letters to the editor in your head, but don't put them on paper.

Did you ever, in that wonderland wilderness of adolesence [sic] ever, quite unexpectedly, see something, a dusk sky, a wild bird, a landscape, so exquisite terror touched you at the bone? And you are afraid, terribly afraid the smallest movement, a leaf, say, turning in the wind, will shatter all? That is, I think, the way love is, or should be: one lives in beautiful terror.