The Surest Sign Of Age Is Loneliness.

I Am A Fugitive And A Vagabond, A Sojourner Seeking Signs.

What A Hideout: Holiness Lies Spread And Borne Over The Surface Of Time And Stuff Like Color.

On Plenty Of Days The Writer Can Write Three Or Four Pages, And On Plenty Of Other Days He Concludes He Must Throw Them Away.

You Empty Yourself And Wait, Listening. After A Time You Hear It: There Is Nothing There...you Feel The World's Word As A Tension, A Hum, A Single Chorused Note Everywhere The Same. This Is It: This Hum Is The Silence.

What Is Important Is The Moment Of Opening A Life And Feeling It Touch--with An Electric Hiss And Cry--this Speckled Mineral Sphere, Our Present World.