I am not an adolescent nor a romantic. I analyze objectively.

It more or less has the shape of a love song but 'Crescent Moon' reflects more my longing for an ancient romantic context that includes wild animals fire danger of death stellar navigation and seasonal intuition.

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.

No one knows his true character until he has run out of gas purchased something on the installment plan and raised an adolescent.

The historic ascent of humanity taken as a whole may be summarized as a succession of victories of consciousness over blind forces - in nature in society in man himself.

I remember a hundred lovely lakes and recall the fragrant breath of pine and fir and cedar and poplar trees. The trail has strung upon it as upon a thread of silk opalescent dawns and saffron sunsets.

Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected momentary and fleeting yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains.

I opened the large central window of my office room to its full on the fine early May morning. Then I stood for a few moments breathing in the soft warm air that was charged with the scent of white lilacs below.

Driving a motorcycle is like flying. All your senses are alive. When I ride through Beverly Hills in the early morning and all the sprinklers have turned off the scents that wash over me are just heavenly. Being House is like flying too. You're free of the gravity of what people think.

Now if you're Al Gore you can afford $10 a pop for squiggly-pig-tailed fluorescent light bulbs. But if you're mainstream America two or three kids mom and dad working outside the home that's not a very good deal.