The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, And order'd their estate.
I don't have a cell phone (though for years I've kept saying, "soon").
The pressed oil of words can blaze up into music, into image, into the heart and mind's knowledge. The lit and shadowed places within us can be warmed.
Justice lacking passion fails, betrays.
Wrong solitude vinegars the soul, right solitude oils it.
Between certainty and the real, an ancient enmity.
Some questions cannot be answered. They become familiar weights in the hand, round stones pulled from the pocket, unyielding and cool.
Talent is culture with insolence.
When I was very young I wanted to be an opera singer, a ballet dancer. . . The people I loved were a little different.
The healing power of music is vast. Music therapy is in its infancy in Western psychology. If we knew more, we'd be able to do amazing things, and maybe even make permanent changes in the brain's mysterious workings. With a simple song and four chords, you might be able to do something useful, even life-changing. With all the songs you know, you might be a virtual, veritable medicine chest for the right person.
in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England: Fortune made his sword, By which the world's best garden he achiev'd And left it to his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King of France and England did this King succeed; Whose state so many of had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed.