Quotes About Nature

Borman looked around. Somewhere out here the last ivorybill died. Thirty years ago probably. I still listen for them. What sense does that make? They're gone forever. I didnt know you were a bird watcher. I'm not. I'm a forever watcher. Forever is a long time.

They watch stoms out there so distant they could not be heard, the silent lightning flaring sheetwise and the thin black spine of the mountain chain fluttering and sucked away again in the dark.

The delicate cellular warfare in a waterdrop.

He wears on his head a hat he's made from leaves and they have dried and cracked in the sun and he looks like a raggedyman wandered from some garden where he'd used to frighten birds.

Yellow leaves were falling all through the forest and the river was filled with them, shuttling and winking, golden leaves that rushed like poured coins in the tailwater. A perishable currency, forever renewed.

Cuando los corderos se pierden en el monte, dijo, se les oye llorar. Unas veces acude la madre. Otras el lobo. Les

Dark and cold and no wind and a thin gray reef beginning along the eastern rim of the world. He walked out on the prairie and stood holding his hat like some supplicant to the darkness over them all and he stood there for a long time.

Sizce o devrin insanlar? daha m? gaddard?? diye sordu memur. Adam sel alt?ndaki kasabaya bak?yordu. Hay?r, dedi. DeÄŸildi. Rabbim ilkini yaratt??? günden beri ayn? insanoÄŸlu.

What should give you pause is that suicides scales with intelligence in the animal kingdom and you might wonder if this is not true of individuals as well as species.

No matter the magnitude of your doubts about the nature of the world you can't come up with another world without coming up with another you. It may even be that everybody starts out fairly unique only most people get over it.

I lupi selezionano i lupi, amico. Quale altra creatura potrebbe farlo? E la razza umana non è ancora più rapace? Tutte le cose del mondo sbocciano, maturano e muoiono, ma in quelle dell'uomo non c'è tramonto e il mezzodì del suo fiorire è già l'inizio della notte. Il suo spirito si esaurisce nel momento stesso in cui raggiunge l'acme. Per lui il meridiano è insieme il crepuscolo e la sera del giorno. Gli piace giocare? Faccia la sua puntata.

The colt stood against the horse with its head down and the horse was watching, out there past the men's knowing, where the stars are drowning and wales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

That old she-painter, she never left a track one. She wadn't no common kind of painter.

Books lie, he said. God dont lie. No, said the judge. He does not. And these are his words. He held up a chunk of rock. He speaks in stones and trees, the bones of things.

The cranes were moving south and he watched their thin echelons trail along those unseen corridors writ in their blood a hundred thousand years.

wind itself is in terror of it and the world cannot

Where he walked the tideline at dusk the last red reaches of the sun flared slowly out along the sky to the west and the tidepools stood like spills of blood.

They was some of em wound up just livin in the woods like animals. And that was a cold winter, too. People would see em crossin the road at night in the carlights. Whole families. Carryin blankets. Pots and pans. People tried to find em. Take em some flour and meal. Coffee. Maybe a little sidemeat. I think about those children. I do yet.

Alone in the empty shell of a house the squatter watched through the moteblown glass a rimshard of bonecolored moon come cradling up over the black balsams on the ridge, ink trees a facile hand sketched against the paler dark of winter heavens.

At some point we cannot escape naming responsibility. It's in our nature. Sometimes I think we are all like that myopic coiner at his press, taking the blind slugs one by one from the tray, all of us bent so jealously at our work, determined that not even chaos be outside of our own making.

Cormac McCarthy

In the relative cool of the timber stands, possum grapes and muscadine flourish with a cynical fecundity, and the floor of the forest — littered with old mossbacked logs, peopled with toadstools strange and solemn among the ferns and creepers and leaning to show their delicate livercolored gills — has about it a primordial quality, some steamy carboniferous swamp where ancient saurians lurk in feigned sleep.

He lay down in his blankets. It was growing dark, long late mid-summer twilight in the woods. He wanted to go down to the river to bathe but he felt too bad. He turned over and looked at the small plot of ground in the crook of his arm. My life is ghastly, he told the grass.

there is no order in the world save that which death has put there.