Monday is the day of silence, day of the whole white mung bean, which is sacred to the moon.

Each spice has a special day to it. For turmeric it is Sunday, when light drips fat and butter-colored into the bins to be soaked up glowing, when you pray to the nine planets for love and luck.

Each day has a color, a smell.

How can I forgive if you are not ready to give up that which caused you to stumble?

Fenugreek, Tuesday's spice, when the air is green like mosses after rain.

Fennel, which is the spice for Wednesdays, the day of averages, of middle-aged people. . . . Fennel . . . smelling of changes to come.

She lifts a bowl of kheer and her thoughts, flittering like dusty sparrows in a brown back alley, turn a sudden kingfisher blue.

Shakespeare wrote better poetry for not knowing too much; Milton, I think, knew too much finally for the good of his poetry.

The change is from inner to outer. We start by dissolving our attitude not by altering outer conditions.

Roxanne Quimby wanted money and power, and I was just a pillar on the way to that success.

If you avoid conflict to keep the peace, you start a war inside yourself.

Technology is us. There is no separation. It's a pure expression of human creative will. It doesn't exist anywhere else in the universe. I'm rather sure of that.

People will hate you for speaking the truth, but you've gotta learn to stand up to them, so don't be offended if I say something you don't like.

Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house—do not pass by like a dream.

Jacob: I've never seen so much manure. Wade: Baggage stock horses. They pack'em in 27 a car. Jacob: how do you stand the smell? Wade: what smell?

I'd rather go out in a decent crack-up than in a hospital.