An artist's saddest secrets are those that have to do with his artistry.
Today I stood taller from walking among the trees.
The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.
The emptiness was intense, like the stillness in a great factory when the machinery stops running.
Late one brilliant April afternoon Professor Lucius Wilson stood at the head of Chestnut Street, looking about him with the pleased air of a man of taste who does not very often get to Boston.
Some things are best learned in calm, others in storm.