I thought how utterly we have forsaken the Earth, in the sense of excluding it from our thoughts. There are but few who consider its physical hugeness, its rough enormity. It is still a disparate monstrosity, full of solitudes, barrens, wilds. It still dwarfs, terrifies, crushes. The rivers still roar, the mountains still crash, the winds still shatter. Man is an affair of cities. His gardens, orchards and fields are mere scrapings. Somehow, however, he has managed to shut out the face of the giant from his windows. But the giant is there, nevertheless.

Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.

Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.

One must read poetry with one's nerves.

It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.