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On no subject are our ideas more warped and pitiable than on death.

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Night is coming on and I am filled with indescribable loneliness. Felt feverish; bathed in a black, silent stream.
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Black Feeling Loneliness Night Silence
Writing is like the life of a glacier; one eternal grind.
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Glacier Grind Life One Liner Writing
The world, we are told, was made especially for man – a presumption not supported by all the facts.
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One must labor for beauty as for bread.
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Going to the mountains is going home.
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Take me into the mountains.
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Go quietly, alone; no harm will befall you.
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As if nothing that does not obviously make for the benefit of man had any right to exist; as if our ways were God’s ways.
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It seems supernatural, but only because it is not understood.
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Earth has no sorrow that earth can not heal.
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I never saw a discontented tree.
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God has cared for these trees, saved them from drought, disease, avalanches, and a thousand tempests and floods. But he cannot save them from fool.
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Hidden in the glorious wildness like unmined gold.
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Come to the woods, for here is rest. There is no repose like that of the green deep woods. Sleep in forgetfulness of all ill.
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