The Well Of Nature Is

I Consider Fiction A Very High-class Form Of Lying. I Enjoy And Admire It Enormously, But I Don't Think I'm Very Good At It.

What An Odd, Ruminating, Noisy, Self-interrupting Conversation We Conduct With Ourselves From Birth To Death.

Nothing Reveals More About The Inner Life Of A People Than Their Arts.

There Was Nothing To Do But Wait. It Is Always Like This For Naturalists, And For Poets--the Long Hours Of Travel And Preparation, And Then The Longer Hours Of Waiting. All For That One Electric, Pulse-revving Vision When The Universe Suddenly Declares Itself.

Knee-deep In The Cosmic Overwhelm, I’m Stricken By The Ricochet Wonder Of It All: The Plain Everythingness Of Everything, In Cahoots With The Everythingness Of Everything Else.