Where I come from
it's a long thin thread

Across an ocean.
Down a river of red.

Now that the living
outnumber the dead.

I'm one of many.

A room without books is like a body without a soul.

As I see it, life is an effort to grip,

before they slip through one's fingers and slide into oblivion,

the startling, the ghastly or the blindingly exquisite fish of the imagination

before they whip away on the endless current

and are lost for ever in oblivion's black ocean.

Winter Solstice

Wisdom begins in wonder.

Each day I live in a glass room

unless I break it with the thrusting of my senses

and pass through the splintered walls to the great landscape.

Life is without meaning. 

You bring the meaning to it. 

The meaning of life is whatever you ascribe it to be. 

Being alive is the meaning.

So come, my friends, be not afraid.

We are so lightly here.

It is in love that we are made;

In love we disappear.

Wings Of Desire

As I see it, or as I want to see it,

the marvels of the visible world are not things in themselves

but revelations to stir the imagination —

to conduct us to amazing climates of the mind,

which climates it is for the artist

to translate into paint or into words.

This we know:

the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth.

All things are connected like the blood that unites us all.

Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it.

Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.