During a blizzard the night before Thanksgiving a flash of pink lightning and a clap of thunder— the wonder and mystery of nature were reborn—it is Thanksgiving morning—the storm has cleared for us...
On all sides I saw beautiful materials, wide rolling fields of dead grass to the N.E. with great lavender cloud shadows sweeping across it
The determination to stand alone, and the iron will to carry it thru, keeping his work pure and unsullied by the current decadence in art; by keeping lonely vigils with nature, whereby he comes to know her in all her true aspects unsoftened by sentimentality.
Drive south on Bullis to the Hill—where I parked, + climbed the hill. The moon behind a “fleet” of dappled clouds. I waited for it to come clear of them—
... Afterward I went to a movie to kill time. It was thoroughly stupid, and I was glad when I finally lay down in my berth and homeward bound.
The yellow butterfly which I warmed by breathing on it—Coming home—an Elysian remote feeling—High wind in trees—
One commentator put it well—he said that with the death of President Kennedy, a part of each of us, has died. I think this is true.
At midmorning, a rarely beautiful sight—a jet-plane, with white trail, speeding across the northern sky from east to west—
He had been out walking and had committed some thoughtless transgression against the laws of the woodlands. Perhaps it was that he had unwittingly failed to look at the first wild flower, or had neglected a bird song.
Let my studio be hallowed by large adventurous thoughts; and a feeling of security and isolation from the banalities of life; by dreams, and bold imaginings...