Quotes About Nature

I want to skip this part. I want to pull on the arm of my slot machine and let the rolls flip over until they show a green tree in the summertime, and me away from that house, walking tall under a blue sky.

God sighed, for all physical processes are reversible in theory—but not in practice.

The grass and the rivers and the stones and women and horses and more Stars and men and clouds and birds and trees came dancing through the afterbirth of the Mare,

He considers it for a moment and spits out the seeds, which sprout, quickly, into tiny junkblossoms sizzling with recursive algorithms. The algorithms wriggle through thorny vines, veins of clotted pink juice.

My master lit a candle in the long midwinter's past Now summer comes and all the fields are burning black and fast.

Marya watched from the upper floor as once again the birds gathered in the great oak tree, sniping and snapping for the last autumn nuts, stolen from squirrels and hidden in bark-cracks, which every winged creature knows are the most bitter of all nuts, like old sorrows sitting heavy on the tongue.

But I've brought you to the snow, and the snow is the beginning and the end of everything, everyone knows that. I

Springtime has a surplus of sunbeams, and I am only feline.

But the birch tree reminded me of how large the world was and how unimportant was my place in it. It became a reminder: to let things be what they were, to live unsentimentally. To pare away the unnecessary neuroses, the compulsion to be at the center of every thought; to look at the world without the intervening lens of self.

Outside, it feels like there is less standing between the Creator and us. There is a lingering visceral connection we can hear and see and smell, reminders of the bond between Creator and creation, like the mountain sage crushed up in the pocket of the sweatshirt I was wearing on a short, muddy hike the other day. "In

The honeysuckle was everywhere the day the letter arrived, like heat. Wild roses bloomed in hedges of tendrils and perfume. There were fat bees, dirigible bees, plump and miniature. It was a sweet, tangled morning, and the sun rose, leisurely, in a spectacular blush.

The garden stretched out in a soft drift, colors jumbled any way, an unmade bed of red and yellow and pink. Then came the trees. Apple, plum, and the Japanese black pine.

Lines of gulls standing on glassy blue patches of wet sand.

They ate and picked sand from their chicken in the pink light.

The night was mossy and hot...

Beyond the Mountains of the Moon, around the curve of the earth, my shadow streched, and within me scratched and crawled small living things, I was sand and rock. My innards were crusted with gems. My heart was molten.

Kids are cute, babies are cute, puppies are cute. The little things are cute. See, nature did this on purpose so that we would want to take care of our young. Made them cute. Tricked us. Then gradually they get older and older, until one day your mother sits you down and says, "You know, I think you're ugly enough to get your own apartment."

Maintaining healthy forests is essential to those who make a living from the land and for those of us who use them for recreational purposes.

Il ne faut pas avoir peur de regarder les choses en face. La vie est le résultat de la malpropreté. Si la nature avait été bien tenue, la vie ne serait jamais apparue. La vie est née de quelques vagues saletés au fond d'une flaque d'eau boueuse. La vie, donc l'homme. Il n'y a vraiment pas de quoi être fier.

XXXVII Qualunque ben si fa, naturalmente nasce d'Amor, come del fiore el frutto, ché Amor fa l'omo essere valente

This is how an owl must look to a mouse in that last second before the talons sink into the flesh.

So, you are happy to be a pigeon?" "Maybe so. But at least a pigeon does no harm. The hawk lives at the expense of the other creatures that dwell in the desert.

Why, I wondered, did we, all of us, both the rector in his pulpit and simple Lottie in her croft, seek to put the Plague in unseen hands? Why should this thing be either a test of faith sent by God, or the evil working of the Devil in the world? One of these beliefs we embraced, the other we scorned as superstition. But perhaps each was false, equally. Perhaps the Plague was neither of God nor the Devil, but simply a thing in Nature, as the stone on which we stub a toe.

The common soldiers did not blame him for his excessive grief. They knew him. They knew his flaws. Indeed, I think they loved him all the more because he was flawed, as they were, and did not hide his passionate, blemished nature.