Gardening gives one back a sense of proportion about everything - except itself.
A great silence has descended on me for the last six months. I am as silent as an Arab in the desert, as dry, thirsty, and full of wonder and rumours which do not materialize into camels or travellers at all, but just vanish into the silent spaces from where they came. I expect this is a good thing though it is extremely irritating - the brink of a voice and never a voice.
Gardening is an instrument of grace.
It is dangerous it seems to me for a civilization when there is a complete abyss betewen people in general and the artists. Or is it always so? The poets who are most ardently on the people's side write in such a way that the people cannot see rhyme nor reason to their work.
How much hope, expectation, and sheer hard work goes into the smallest success! There is no being sure of anything except that whatever has been created will change in time.
Does one come to enjoy even the hardships that help make one the person one is? Or is it that the past becomes a legend to be remembered with laughter?
Anyone who is going to be a writer knows enough at fifteen to write several novels.
Here life goes on, even and monotonous on the surface, full of lightning, of summits and of despair, in its depths. We have now arrived at a stage in life so rich in new perceptions that cannot be transmitted to those at another stage - one feels at the same time full of so much gentleness and so much despair - the enigma of this life grows, grows, drowns one and crushes one, then all of a sudden in a supreme moment of light one becomes aware of the sacred.
How unnatural the imposed view, imposed by a puritanical ethos, that passionate love belongs only to the young, that people are dead from the neck down by the time they are forty, and that any deep feeling, any passion after that age, is either ludicrous or revolting!
If art is not to be life-enhancing, what is it to be?
When one's not writing poems - and I'm not at the moment - you wonder how you ever did it. It's like another country you can't reach.
What we have not has made us what we are. / ... / What we are not drives us to consummation.
She became for me an island of light, fun, wisdom where I could run with my discoveries and torments and hopes at any time of day and find welcome.
The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.
They are commiting murder who merely live.
The ambience here is order and beauty. That is what frightens me when I am first alone again. I feel inadequate. I have made an open place, a place for meditation. What if I cannot find myself inside it?
I see a certain order in the universe and math is one way of making it visible.
Solitude is one thing and loneliness is another.
There is only one real deprivation... and that is not to be able to give one's gifts to those one loves most.
For art is order, but it is born out of the chaos of life.
There were moments ... when it seemed that all one could be asked was just to keep the ashtrays clean, the bed made, the wastebaskets emptied, as if one never got to the real things because of the constant exhausting battle to keep ordinary life from falling apart.
More than any other beauty (though it is true of all beauty except in art) passion seems to me to have the seeds of its own destruction in it.
[In old age] there is a childlike innocence, often, that has nothing to do with the childishness of senility. The moments become precious . . .
gardening is a madness, a folly that does not go away with age. Quite the contrary.
May we agree that private life is irrelevant? Multiple, mixed, ambiguous at best - out of it we try to fashion the crystal clear, the singular, the absolute, and that is what is relevant; that is what matters.
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