Landscape was never a subject matter, it was a technique, A method of measure, a scaffold for structuring. I stole its silences, I stepped to its hue and cry.
Being born at all amounts to peering out from a cliff Over the sea. The great jellyfish who spread their arms Out on the sea tell us how deep our ignorance is.
I can’t imagine breaking up with you. Instead, I think about the neighbors’ problems: His anguished look seems punishment for truth; his “other half” is thin and Puerto Rican.
William Blake saw an angel sitting in a tree. Blondin crossed Niagara on a cable. And Maria Taglioni for a Russian highwayman danced on a panther’s skin spread over the snow in 1855.