The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness; the mind wants to know all the world, and all eternity, and God.

Nature's silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.

Self-consciousness is the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies.

When I walk with a camera, I walk from shot to shot, reading the light on a calibrated meter. When I walk without a camera, my own shutter opens, and the moment's light prints on my own silver gut. When I see this second way I am above all an unscrupulous observer.

The soul may ask God for anything, and never fail.

There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind.

Time is the continuous loop, the snakeskin with scales endlessly overlapping without beginning or end, or time is an ascending spiral if you will, like a child's toy Slinky.

Somewhere, and I can't find where, I read about an Eskimo hunter who asked the local missionary priest, 'If I did not know about God and sin, would I go to hell?' 'No,' said the priest, 'not if you did not know.' 'Then why,' asked the Eskimo earnestly, 'did you tell me?'

If you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it.

The mind itself is an art object ... The mind is a blue guitar on which we improvise the song of the world.