I almost gave my life long ago for a thingThat has gone to dust now, stinging my eyes—It is strange how often a heart must be brokenBefore the years can make it wise.

What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring, That my songs do not show me at all?For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire, I am an answer, they are only a call

Down the hill I went, and then, I forgot the ways of men, For night-scents, heady and damp and coolWakened ecstasy

Work with great zeal.

Please, Lord gives power to obey your commandment

To live as fully as completely as possible to be happy ... is the true aim and end to life.

I am aware of the usefulness of science to society and of the benefits society derives from it.

It is a lifetime effort to come to grips with being an artistic person.

I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.

I am not unique in my elegiac sadness at watching reading die, in the era that celebrates Stephen King and J.K. Rowling rather than Charles Dickens and Lewis Carroll.

I realize that's why we play golf, to hit the ball into the hole. But it is a strange feeling when you hit the shot and it actually goes in.

I try never to say no when it comes to creativity, but I do try and lead down an "appropriate road" - like not on furniture or the walls.

You just see your hands, your ice axe, and your crampons...and they have to just move.