Waves of hands, hesitations at street corners, someone dropping a cigarette into the gutter-all are stories. But which is the true story? That I do not know. Hence I keep my phrases hung like clothes in a cupboard, waiting for some one to wear them. Thus waiting, thus speculating, making this note and then an· other I do not cling to life. I shall be brushed like a bee from a sunflower. My philosophy, always accumulating, welling up moment by moment, runs like quicksilver a dozen ways at once.

Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it.

Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.

At 46 one must be a miser; only have time for essentials.

What a comfort is friendship in this world.

It is impossible for human beings, constituted as they are, both to fight and to have ideals.

No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.