Nor eye in a letter, nor hand in a purse, nor ear in the secret of another.
Man is a great blunderer going about in the woods, and there is no other except the bear makes so much noise.
Man is not himself only. . . He is all that he sees; all that flows to him from a thousand sources. . . He is the land, the lift of its mountain lines, the reach of its valleys.
This is the sense of the desert hills, that there is room enough and time enough
As I walk. . as I walk. . The universe. . is walking with me. . Beautifully. . it walks before me. . . . Beautifully. . on every side. . . . As I walk. . I walk with beauty.
For all the toll the desert takes of a man it gives compensations, deep breaths, deep sleep, and the communion of the stars.
The manner of the country makes the usage of life there, and the land will not be lived in except in its own fashion.
Zimbabwe, once the breadbasket of Africa, is now its dust bowl.
I feel very happy to be living in Berkeley because there are a lot of people who are politically active here.
There’s a ghost of a dream that you don’t even try to shake free off because you’re too in love with the way she haunts you.
The rest-the vast majority, tens of thousands of days-are unremarkable, repetitive, even monotonous. We glide through them then instantly forget them. We tend not to think about this arithmetic when we look back on our lives. We remember the handful of Big Days and throw away the rest. We organize our long, shapeless lives into tidy little stories. . . But our lives are mostly made up of junk, of ordinary, forgettable days, and 'The End' is never the end.