I think that one's art is a growth inside one. I do not think one can explain growth. It is silent and subtle. One does not keep digging up a plant to see how it grows.
There is something bigger than fact: the underlying spirit, all it stands for, the mood, the vastness, the wildness.
Trees love to toss and sway; they make such happy noises.
Perfectly ordered disorder designed with a helter-skelter magnificence.
Twenty can't be expected to tolerate sixty in all things, and sixty gets bored stiff with twenty's eternal love affairs.
I sat staring, staring, staring - half lost, learning a new language or rather the same language in a different dialect. So still were the big woods where I sat, sound might not yet have been born.
