In the presence of eternity, the mountains are as transient as the clouds.
Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.
The lake and the mountains have become my landscape, my real world.
The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us.
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
The lake is a reminder that beauty can be found in stillness.
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy.
The lake is a microcosm of time past and time future.