Quotes About Nature

Lucy doesn't read self-help books about how to be a dog; she just is a dog.

Para nosotros es difícil admitir que tenemos una naturaleza pecaminosa porque vivimos en este sistema de chequeos y balanzas. Si somos atrapados, seremos castigados. Pero eso no nos hace gente buena, solo nos hace dóciles.

I wondered then if life weren't about nature, if we were supposed to live in the woods and grow into the forest like tree moss.

Transformation is natural. None of us look the same as we did when we were babies, and when we are old, we'll look very different than we did when we were middle aged. Things that are healthy and alive change. The converse is also true: things that are dead do not change. A rock does not change because a rock is not alive.

Being friends with your customers is a great idea, but don't forget, this is a business relationship and business relationships are, by nature, transactional. And there is nothing wrong with a transactional business relationship.

By writing about the community we will create or join, and by listing the ways we will appreciate nature and art, we are reminding ourselves, over and over, that life is not about us. It's about sharing our human experience with other people.

El deseo innato de ser generoso. Ninguno de los deseos que he mencionado es malo. También es verdad que todos pueden potencialmente llevarse demasiado lejos, pero el hecho es que estamos diseñados para sobrevivir. Ahora bien, debiera consolarnos saber que la mayoría de los seres humanos tenemos un potencial tremendo para la generosidad.

The backside of Hollywood passion is disappointment and loneliness—and more often than not, resentment and cynicism about the nature of love itself. Betsy and I were building more of a symphony than a pop song.

I am something of a recluse by nature. I am the cordless screwdriver that has to charge for twenty hours to earn ten minutes use. I need that much downtime.

A man watches his pear tree day after day, impatient for the ripening of the fruit," Lincoln once explained to an abolitionist. "Let him attempt to force the process, and he may spoil both fruit and tree. But let him patiently wait, and the ripe pear at length falls into his lap.

I remember that's the way he was before we came out here. But then it was as if we'd come to a magic country where people changed into the person you wanted them to be, and all of a sudden my father became quiet and patient and had time to read to me.

what in God's name was the thrust of that vast expanse of displaced water doing to those stones and to the centuries-old binding that kept them in place? Suddenly the air was unbreathable as a capricious gust blew the ship's exhaust down on them for a few seconds.

as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn't touch.

That night I wrote in my journal: Trees are schizophrenic now and beginning to lose control, enraged with the shock of their fiery new colors. Someone -- was it van Gogh? -- said that orange is the color of insanity. _Beauty is terror._ We want to be devoured by it, to hide ourselves in that fire which refines us.

If I had grown up in that house I couldn't have loved it more, couldn't have been more familiar with the creak of the swing, or the pattern of the clematis vines on the trellis, or the velvety swell of land as it faded to gray on the horizon . . . . The very colors of the place had seeped into my blood.

Out in the country it was not uncommon to discover that she had slipped away, alone, out to the lake, maybe, or down to the cellar, where once I found her sitting in the big marooned sleigh, reading, her fur coat thrown over her knees. Things would have been terrible strange and unbalanced without her. She was the Queen who finished out the suit of dark Jacks, dark King, and Joker.

It's beautiful here, but morning light can make the most vulgar things tolerable.

But even that day, there on the porch, with Charles beside me and the smell of wood smoke in the air, it had the quality of a memory; there it was, before my eyes, and yet too beautiful to believe.

To be absolutely free! One is quite capable, of course, of working out these destructive passions in more vulgar and less efficient ways. But how glorious to release them in a single burst! To sing, to scream, to dance barefoot in the woods in the dead of night, with no more awareness of mortality than an animal!

I have only to glance over my shoulder for all those years to drop away and I see it behind me again, the ravine, rising all green and black through the saplings, a picture that will never leave me.

I think about it quite a bit, actually, that look on his face. I think about a lot of things. I think about the first time I ever saw a birch tree; about the last time I saw Julian; about the first sentence that I ever learned in Greak. ?????? ?? ????. Beauty is harsh. ? Donna Tartt, The Secret History

I was behind in school, there were papers to write and exams were coming up but still I was young; the grass was green and the air was heavy with the sound of bees and I had just come back from the brink of Death itself, back to the sun and air. Now I was free; and my life, which I had thought was lost, stretched out indescribably precious and sweet before me.

That life—whatever else it is—is short. That fate is cruel but maybe not random. That Nature (meaning Death) always wins but that doesn't mean we have to bow and grovel to it. That maybe even if we're not always so glad to be here, it's our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open.

Even now I remember those pictures, like pictures in a storybook one loved as a child. Radiant meadows, mountains vaporous in the trembling distance; leaves ankle-deep on a gusty autumn road; bonfires and fog in the valleys; cellos, dark window-panes, snow.