I am a fugitive and a vagabond, a sojourner seeking signs.
Nature’s silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.
Then why did you tell me?
When you write, you lay out a line of words. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory.
The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness; the mind wants to know all the world, and all eternity, and God.
When I first read the words ‘introvert’ and ‘extrovert’ when I was 10, I thought I was both.
Self-consciousness is the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies.
Put yourself out of your misery.
The dear, stupid body is as easily satisfied as a spaniel.
We live half our waking lives and all of our sleeping lives in some private, useless, and insensible waters we never mention or recall.
Evolution loves death more than it loves you or me. This is easy to write, easy to read, and hard to believe.
The Pulitzer is more useful than meaningful.
Our life seems cursed to be a wiggle merely, and a wandering without end.
Time is the continuous loop, the snakeskin with scales endlessly overlapping without beginning or end, or time is an ascending spiral if you will, like a child’s toy Slinky.
Every spring he vowed to quit teaching school, and every summer he missed his pupils and searched for them on the streets.
Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac.
I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too.
Doing something does not require discipline. It creates its own discipline – with a little help from caffeine.
We are here to bring to consciousness the beauty and power that are around us and to praise the people who are here with us.
The universe is illusion merely, not one speck of it real, and we are not only its victims, falling always into or smashed by a planet slung by the sun-but also its captives, bound by the mineral-made ropes of our senses.