“People have too many problems during the day; they don’t want to think.”

Anything important has to be almost invisible. And underrated.

I didn’t get involved in it; I started what then became a movement.

I’m mostly self-taught. I didn’t learn much in school.

One thing that’s paramount in my life is that I am alone. I’m a loner. And yet I have many friends and I don’t feel lonely.

I wish I didn’t have daily problems to deal with, so that I could just concentrate on learning more, every single day.

People don’t hurt what they love.

I had drawings that were the first time that mathematics was put into visual form.

People always understand everything in retrospect.

Philosophy gets its ugly head into everything, but I don’t think we live philosophy anymore. It’s done.

My work is about helping humanity.

When I’m gone, you’ll be sitting in a cafe and say, “Do you remember Agnes?”

Public art existed all along, but ecological art just naturally grew out of my thinking and writings in that area for years.

Thinking has an understructure and underpinnings.

We use up words as we use up images. We use up everything, and that’s good, because it makes us grow.

I always was alone. And I’m alone today. It’s fine. I have lots of friends, but not in terms of working together.

I’d go from scientist to scientist to scientist, like a bee goes from flower to flower.

We have become ninety-nine percent money mad. The method of living at home modestly and within our income, laying a little by systematically for the proverbial rainy day which is due to come, can almost be listed among the lost arts.

My only home are the daydreams I dream.

He that hath light within their own breast, may sit in the centre and enjoy bright day.

Never a day passes but that I do myself the honor to commune with some of nature’s varied forms.

Full little knowest thou that hast not tried, What hell it is in suing long to bide: To loose good dayes, that might be better spent; To waste long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow.

Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.

Nowhere else than upon the sea do the days, weeks, and months fall away quicker into the past. They seem to be left astern as easily as the light air-bubbles in the swirls of the ship’s wake.

The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.