“Every honest miller has a golden thumb.”

Abstinence is approved of God.

What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.

If gold rust, what then will iron do? For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust.

With empty hands men may no hauks lure.

For in their hearts doth Nature stir them so Then people long on pilgrimage to go And palmers to be seeking foreign strands To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands.

The fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.

Men love newfangleness.

Many a true word is spoken in jest.

He who accepts his poverty unhurt I’d say is rich although he lacked a shirt. But truly poor are they who whine and fret and covet what they cannot hope to get.

In April the sweet showers fall And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all The veins are bathed in liquor of such power As brings about the engendering of the flower.

What’s said is said and goes upon its way Like it or not, repent it as you may.

Patience is a conquering virtue.

One shouldn’t be too inquisitive in life Either about God’s secrets or one’s wife.

In general, women desire to rule over their husbands and lovers, to be the authority above them.

The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.

Time and tide wait for no man.

The only thing that it is advisable to know in any language is the numerals; and even there, you can do a lot with the fingers.

My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling out forms on a plane.

Tracing my fingertips over these open wounds that you carelessly open up, just to be amused; You pick at my sorrow while all I do is care for you.

I’d rather be more of the hippie country chick – as in, instead of pointing a finger, just maybe saying, ‘We’re all screw-ups. We’re all in this kind of together. We’re all just figuring this out.’

I burned my own damn finger pokin’ someone else’s fire.

There is something truer and more real, than what we can see with the eyes, and touch with the finger.

As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.

Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.