Lost time is like a run in a stocking. It always gets worse.
In our family an experience was not finished, nor truly experienced, unless written down and shared with another.
What release to write so that one forgets oneself, forgets one’s companion, forgets where one is or what one is going to do next to be drenched in sleep or in the sea. Pencils and pads and curling blue sheets alive with letters heap up on the desk.
But I want first of all- in fact, as an end to these other desires- to be at peace with myself.
My passport photo is one of the most remarkable photographs I have ever seen- no retouching, no shadows, no flattery-just stark me.
For it is only framed in space that beauty blooms.
The fundamental magic of flying, a miracle that has nothing to do with any of its practical purposes – purposes of speed, accessibility, and convenience – and will not change as they change.
One must go through periods of numbness that are harder to bear than grief.
Certain springs are tapped only when you’re alone.
It is terribly amusing how many different climates of feelings one can go through in one day.
So many things we love are you!
And if flying, like a glass-bottomed bucket, can give you that vision, that seeing eye, which peers down on the still world below the choppy waves – it will always remain magic.
Woman can best refind herself by losing herself in some kind of creative activity of her own.
The intellectual is constantly betrayed by his vanity. Godlike he blandly assumes that he can express everything in words; whereas the things one loves, lives, and dies for are not, in the last analysis completely expressible in words.
Life is a gift, given in trust – like a child.
For the most part, we, who could choose simplicity, choose complication.
Certain environments, certain modes of life, and certain rules of conduct are more conducive to inner and outer harmony than others. There are, in fact, certain roads that one may follow. Simplification is one of them.
I would like to achieve a state of inner spiritual grace from which I could function and give as I was meant to in the eye of God.
Those fields of daisies we landed on, and dusty fields and desert stretches. Memories of many skies and earths beneath us – many days, many nights of stars.
When the wedding march sounds the resolute approach, the clock no longer ticks, it tolls the hour. The figures in the aisle are no longer individuals, they symbolize the human race.