O friendship, I too will press flowers between the pages of Shakespeare's sonnets!

I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.

It is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed any longer.

What I like, or one of the things I like, about motoring is the sense it gives one of lighting accidentally, like a voyager who touches another planet with the tip of his toe, upon scenes which would have gone on, have always gone on, will go on, unrecorded, save for this chance glimpse. Then it seems to me I am allowed to see the heart of the world uncovered for a moment.

Life's bare as a bone.

I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.