“Art, like Nebraska, is a journey into thin air, a walk into whiteness, where you lose everything but yourself.”

“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child—our own two eyes. All is a miracle.”

“Step out the front door like a ghostinto the fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white, and in between the moon and you, the angels get a better view of the crumbling difference between wrong and right. I walk in the air, between the rain, through myself and back again where? I don't know.”

“That's the beauty of art--we strive for perfection but never achieve it. The journey is everything.”

“Fool of a Took!" he growled. "This is a serious journey, not a hobbit walking-party. Throw yourself in next time, and then you will be no further nuisance.”

“Nobody's that naive," she muttered. "Nobody's that guileless.""He's from Nebraska." Peabody scanned her pocket unit."From where?""Nebraska." Peabody waived a hand, vaguely west.... "They still grow them pretty guileless in Nebraska. I think it's all that soy and corn.”