We walked always in beauty, it seemed to me. We walked and looked about, or stood and looked. Sometimes, less often, we would sit down. We did not often speak. The place spoke for us and was a kind of speech. We spoke to each other in the things we saw.

There’s nothing under the ground that’s worth more than the little layer of topsoil sitting on top of it.

It is impossible to prefigure the salvation of the world in the same language by which the world has been dismembered and defaced.

So, friends, every day do something that won't compute...Give your approval to all you cannot understand...Ask the questions that have no answers. Put your faith in two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years...Laugh. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts....Practice resurrection.

The soil under the grass is dreaming of a young forest, and under the pavement the soil is dreaming of grass.

I dislike the thought that some animal has been made miserable to feed me. If I am going to eat meat, I want it to be from an animal that has lived a pleasant, uncrowded life outdoors, on bountiful pasture, with good water nearby and trees for shade.

Beauty . . . cannot be interpreted. It is not an empirically verifiable fact; it is not a quantity.