I heard a bird congratulating itself all day for being a jay. Nobody cared. But it was glad all over again, and said so, again.
Literature is not a picture of life, but is a separate experience with its own kind of flow and enhancement.
. . . On a sandbar sunlight stretches out its limbs, or is it a sycamore, so brazen, so clean and bold?
I keep following this sort of hidden river of my life, you know, whatever the topic or impulse which comes, I follow it along trustingly. And I don't have any sense of its coming to a kind of crescendo, or of its petering out either. It is just going...
They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, "Who are you really, wanderer?"-- and the answer you have to give no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: "Maybe I'm a king.
Evening came, a paw, to the gray hut by the river.
An owl sound wandered along the road with me. I didn't hear it--I breathed it into my ears.
