Instinctively we both looked for the inscriptions we cut, once upon a time, on trees and on stones, in foolish delight. We sought them like scattered treasure, on the strange cheeks of the old willows, near the tendrils of the fall, on the birches that stand like candles in front of the violet thicket, and on the old fir which so often sheltered us with its dark wings. Many inscriptions have disappeared. Some are worn away because things do; some are covered by a host of other inscriptions or they are distorted and ugly. Nearly all have passed on as if they had been passers-by.
How still it is! Stinging into the stones, The locusts' trill.
Boys throw stones at frogs in fun, but the frogs do not die in fun, but in earnest.
Believe me, you will find more lessons in the woods than in books. Trees and stones will teach you what you cannot learn from masters.
My dealer was a friend of the Beatles and the Stones, and he suggested they used a fine artist. I talked to the Beatles at length about what the cover would be. I worked out it would show the moment after they had played in a bandstand in the park. My big contribution was the life-size cutouts, the magic crowds.
Cooler than Mick Jagger with the stones. Stop jacking my swagger cause my swagger is my own.
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