It is fatal to one’s artistic life to talk about something this is in process.

When he opens his eyes he gives to what he gazes at the recognition no look ever before granted it. It becomes a word.

The world is not with us enough.

Teachers at all levels encourage the idea that you have to talk about things in order to understand them, because they wouldn’t have jobs, otherwise. But it’s phony, you know.

We call it “Nature”; only reluctantly admitting ourselves to be “Nature” too.

I like to find what’s not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.

In city, in suburb, in forest, no way to stretch out the arms – so if you would grow, go straight up or deep down.

Rain-diamonds, this winter morning, embellish the tangle of unpruned pear-tree twigs; each solitaire, placed, it appears, with considered judgement, bears the light beneath the rifted clouds – the invisible shared out in endless abundance.

Wear scarlet! Tear the green lemons off the tree! I don’t want to forget who I am, what has burned in me, and hang limp and clean, an empty dress -.

But for us the road unfurls itself, we don’t stop walking, we know there is far to go.