True solitude is a din of birdsong, seething leaves, whirling colors, or a clamor of tracks in the snow. – Edward Hoagland
There arent many irritations to match the condescension which a woman metes out to a man who she believes has loved her vainly for the past umpteen years. – Edward Hoagland
The question of whether its Gods green earth is not at center stage, except in the sense that if so, one is reminded with some regularity that He may be dying. – Edward Hoagland
Silence is exhilarating at first – as noise is – but there is a sweetness to silence outlasting exhilaration, akin to the sweetness of listening and the velvet of sleep. – Edward Hoagland