The real and proper question is: why is it beautiful?

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.

No one escapes the wilderness on the way to the promised land.

At a certain point, you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world, Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive. You empty yourself and wait, listening.

A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time.

As a life's work, I would remember everything - everything, against loss. I would go through life like a plankton net.

Experiencing the present purely is being empty and hollow; you catch grace as a man fills his cup under a waterfall.

According to Inuit culture in Greenland, a person possesses six or seven souls. The souls take the form of tiny people scattered throughout the body.

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.

The dedicated life is worth living. You must give with your whole heart.

How we feel (emotions) determines what we do (our actions/behavior) which directly determines the results manifested inour life.

Our attitude towards others determines their attitude towards us.

And I tell you, if you have the desire for knowledge and the power to give it physical expression, go out and explore.

I like to have my hand on every single plate that goes out. It's really a good feeling when someone compliments your meal, and you had everything to do with making it. It's very rewarding.

Most of the literary classics are worth reading, if you've nothing better to do.

We must learn how to explode! Any disease is healthier than the one provoked by a hoarded rage.

The best fortune that can fall to a man is that which corrects his defects and makes up for his failings.

The teaching of the church, theoretically astute, is a lie in practice and a compound of vulgar superstitions and sorcery.

The Law is a grim, unsmiling thing. Not Justice, though. Justice is witty and whimsical and kind and caring.

I believe the personal is the collective. One of the ironies of writing memoir is in using the "I" it becomes an alchemical "we." This is the sorcery of literature.