Sort of desolate, decayed, the smell of - I don't want to dramatise it - but death, you know. That is what it feels like, no-man's-land, and it is not a nice place to be.

It goes with a courageous intent to greet the universe as it really is, not to foist our emotional predispositions on it but to courageously accept what our explorations tell us.

Monday nights always brought in the worst kind of crazy. Tonight that crazy came in the form of Paul Cross, town hermit. One of them, anyway. This was the Pacific Northwest.

I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams...

Like a bird, when his cage is opened, stays on his perch, dazzled by freedom, the postponed traveler does not see that his cage, with its bars of anxiety, it is open.

I wish I had a better range, but I really have a super-limited one. Barely a tenor, dips into baritone - that's about it.

I always say to myself, what is the most important thing we can think about at this extraordinary moment.

You'll be scandalized in the morning when you can think again.

Until the missing story of ourselves is told, nothing besides told can suffice us: we shall go on quietly craving it.

The Swedes must be integrated into the new Sweden , the old Sweden will not return.

Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world.