As I grow older, the idea takes increasing hold in me that we’ve misunderstood our own delicacy and diversity as human beings.
When you grow up in an extended family, or in a stable neighborhood with two or three generations of families who live there, you feel seen. Not just the good things you’ve done, the stuff you put on your resume. You know they’ve seen you in your dark times, when you’ve messed up – but they’re still there.
The world is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.
Zeal is a volcano, the peak of which the grass of indecisiveness does not grow.
Doubts never end. If one doubt is removed, another takes its place. It is like removing the leaves of a tree one by one. Even if all the leaves are clipped off, new ones grow. The tree itself must be uprooted.
The artist finds, that the more he can confine his attention to a particular part of any work, his productions are the more perfect, and grow under his hands in the greater quantities.
Insane sects grow with the same rhythm as big organizations. It is the rhythm of total destruction.
Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
New poems no longer come to me with their prodigies of metaphor and assonance. Prose endures. I feel the circles grow smaller, and old age is a ceremony of losses, which is, on the whole, preferable to dying at forty-seven or fifty-two.
When you are skinning your customers, you should leave some skin on to grow again so that you can skin them again.