Complete control can be the death of a work.

We often forget that WE ARE NATURE. Nature is not something separate from us. So when we say that we have lost our connection to nature, we’ve lost our connection to ourselves.

My sculpture can last for days or a few seconds - what is important to me is the experience of making. I leave all my work outside and often return to watch it decay.

There is life in a stone. Any stone that sits in a field or lies on a beach takes on the memory of that place. You can feel that stones have witnessed so many things.

Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood.

Time gives growth, it gives continuity and it gives change. And in the case of some sculptures, time gives a patina to them.

Nature, for me is raw and dangerous and difficult and beautiful and unnerving.

I think that any sculpture is a response to its environment. It can be brought to life or put to sleep by the environment.

You must have something new in a landscape as well as something old, something that's dying and something that's being born.

When I make a work, I often take it to the very edge of its collapse, and that's a very beautiful balance.

People also leave presence in a place even when they are no longer there.

The two things that truly belong to ourselves are our thoughts and actions.

The time for careers and passions was gone. Hunger pangs displaced ambition.

My heroes, my dreams, and my future lay in Yankee Stadium. And they can't take that away from me.

Anything imagined can be made real ... given sufficient genius.

I've never any pity for conceited people, because I think they carry their comfort about with them.

I like coffee exceedingly.

This editor is a critic. He has pulled out his carving-knife and his tomahawk and is starting after a book which he is going to have for breakfast.

The civilized world needs to think about a decision when single politicians are not allowed to stay in power.

How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forced, the notes are few!

I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.