Religion is passionate, reckless, destructive, idol-smashing. It's a martyr burning at the stake. It's a crown of thorns and a cross..

The past ... is a dim avenue down which we may walk and find the diverging paths of terror and beauty and passion..

Time passed so much more slowly than space..

You have stirred the soil with your plow, my friend. It will never be the same again..

There is too much doing - too little being! When we begin to get strenuous, life begins to grow intolerable..

once a man had thrust his hands into the soil and knew the grit of it between his teeth, he felt something rise within him that was not of his day or….

A sickness ... defines margins, crystallizes the shape of things..

a man can break God's laws and be forgiven. That's what they teach us. But when he breaks Nature's laws, there's no forgiveness - and there's no esca….

God, what pathetic creatures had inherited the earth, to walk a little while with their eyes upon the stars and turn their gaze too soon upon the gro….

I don't see as it matters much how well you mean if it's harm you're doin'..

It's remarkable - most remarkable, the way these people manage, from time to time, a tragedy or a near-tragedy to break the even tenor of their ways,….

There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable..

There's precious little comes of telling people what they don't want to hear..

Time, designing slowly, swiftly; Time, destroying slowly, swiftly; Time holding, possessing the earth in its tender indifference..

The snow again. White, white net of beauty, net of dream, trapping the earth, trapping the helpless heart of life..

Ah, life, life, how madly, how cruelly it raced along your pulses!.

The lush green of the fields became a rich gold that swayed sturdily under the wind and fell at last before the hands of the reapers..

But one had to go back to the beginning of things, always. Trace the thread of life - find the knot - untangle it..

Growing old was simply a process of drawing closer to that ultimate independence called death..

Here and there on the branch of an oak a congress of leaves still clung, rigid as flakes of bronze..

A false vision was better than none..