Our first love-letter. . . There is so much to be said, and which no words seems exactly to say - the dread of saying too much is so nicely balanced by the fear of saying too little. Hope borders on presumption, and fear on reproach.
We prove, we do not explain, our birth.
Originality is. . . a by-product of sincerity.
Any writer overwhelmingly honest about pleasing himself is almost sure to please others.
Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
Your thorns are the best part of you.
The hands are the heart's messengers.
I need to be surrounded by people as passionate and as dedicated as I am.
I watch a lot of TV, I drink a lot of coffee, but you know what's really addictive? Heroin.
Everybody was starting to grow long hair and wear pink suits and purple glasses and stuff and then, I suppose, some people thought we were crazy, but we weren't really crazy because we're all still here!
They are prepared for a God who strikes hard bargains but not for a God who gives as much for an hour's work as for a day's. They are prepared for a mustard-seed kingdom of God no bigger than the eye of a newt but not for the great banyan it becomes with birds in its branches singing Mozart. They are prepared for the potluck supper at First Presbyterian but not for the marriage supper of the lamb.