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My depth of purse is not so great Nor yet my bibliophilic greed, That merely buying doth elate: The books I buy I like to read: Still e'en when dawdling in a mead, Beneath a cloudless summer sky, By bank of Thames, or Tyne, or Tweed, The books I read — I like to buy.
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I do not wish to die- There is such contingent beauty in life: The open window on summer mornings Looking out on gardens and green things growing, The shadowy cups of roses flowering to themselves- Images of time and eternity- Silence in the garden and felt along the walls.
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I studied at UC Santa Cruz before going on to do a grad program at UCLA. Santa Cruz was like an awesome hippie summer camp. I got to take a vacation from reality and hang out on beaches and in forests.
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I spent most of my seventh grade summer dehydrated, green-tongued, and smelling like a Malaysian whorehouse.
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When you have once seen the glow of happiness on the face of a beloved person, you know that a man can have no vocation but to awaken that light on the faces surrounding him. In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
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It is not the gardener that makes the garden. It is the garden that makes the gardener.
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Land is not merely soil, it is a fountain of energy flowing through a circuit of soils, plants and animals.
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I always thought the name of Utah’s major newspaper was some sort of weird misspelling of the word “desert.†But no, Deseret is the “land of the honeybee,†according to the Book of Mormon. I guess I should have figured they would have caught a typo in the masthead after 154 years.
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If you imagine writing 1,000 words a day, which most journalists do, that would be a very long book a year.
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A man who has made up his mind on a given subject twenty-five years ago and continues to hold his political opinions after he has been proved to be wrong is a man of principle; while he who from time to time adapts his opinions to the changing circumstances of life is an opportunist.
