I hear voices. A shout. A laugh. Clay's laugh. I strained to see through the night. Fog had rolled in from Lake Ontario, but I could hear him laughing. The concrete turned to grass. The fog wasn't from the lake, but from a pond. Our pond. I was at Stonehaven, bounding through the back acres. Clay was running ahead of me.
I am no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than Walden Pond itself. What company has that lonely lake,I pray?
[On Jane Austen:] To believe her limited in range because she was harmonious in method is as sensible as to imagine that when the Atlantic Ocean is as smooth as a mill-pond it shrinks to the size of a mill-pond.
Many drops make a bucket, many buckets make a pond, many ponds make a lake, and many lakes make an ocean.
An ocean which thinks there is nothing to learn from a lake is not a wise ocean!
Some people like being a big fish in a small pond, others a ferocious shark in the ocean, I rather be the ocean. In the end, fish die.
Marriage may often be a stormy lake, but celibacy is almost always a muddy horse pond.
You throw a stone into a deep pond. Splash. The sound is big, and it reverberates throughout the surrounding area. What comes out of the pond after that? All we can do is stare at the pond, holding our breath.
To a frog that's never left his pond, the ocean seems like a gamble. Look what he's giving up: security, mastery of his world, recognition! The ocean frog just shakes his head. "I can't explain where I live, but someday I'll take you there."
In a puddle, ask for a pool; in a pool, ask for a lake; in a lake, ask for an ocean. This is the way for a frog to reach the stars!
All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.
Frog in a little pond can be much happier than fish in a vast ocean!
In Switzerland, on a high mountain, not far from Lucerne, there is a lake they call Pilate's Pond, which the Devil has fixed upon as one of the chief residences of his evil spirits.
I had become so quiet and so small in the grass by the pond that I was barely noticeable, hardly there... I sat there watching their living room shining out of the dark beside the pond. It looked like a fairy tale functioning happily in the post-World War II gothic of America before television crippled the imagination of America and turned people indoors and away from living out their own fantasies with dignity... Anyway, I just kept getting smaller and smaller beside the pond, more and more unnoticed in the darkening summer grass until I disappeared into the 32 years that have passed since then.
When I was beginning, a young actor could go from repertory company to repertory company. I did that and loved it. I was also lucky.
Once I retire and slow down, I don't want to be in New York. I want to be somewhere near a lake or a pond, so that on my days when I have nothing to do, I can go fishing.