Quotes About Nature

I DID NOT GO straight back to the palace. I could not. I went to the olive grove instead, to sit among the twisting trunks and fallen fruits. It was far from the sea. I did not wish to smell the salt now.

But even I could not fill each minute with fear. I have heard that men who live near a waterfall cease to hear it - in such a way did I learn to live beside the rushing torrent of his doom.

Es posible domesticar una serpiente para que coma de tu mano, pero nadie le va a quitar las ganas de morder.

I have heard that men who live by a waterfall cease to hear it——in such a way did I learn to live beside the rushing torrent of his doom. The days passed, and he lived. The months passed, and I could go a whole day without looking over the precipice of his death. The miracle of a year, then two.

Evoco il ragazzo che conoscevo. Achille che sogghigna mentre i fichi diventano una macchia sfocata tra le sue mani. Gli occhi verdi che ridono nei miei. Prendi, dice. Achille, che si staglia contro il cielo, aggrappato a un ramo sopra il fiume. Il denso calore del suo respiro assonnato contro il mio orecchio:

this is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. this is what it means to be alive. (circle 385)

We don't kill for no reason. As he spoke, the hummingbird pulsed between his palms like a heartbeat, whirred into the air and flew.

Beauty is where you find it.

do you know the land where the lemon-trees blossom;where the golden oranges glow in the dark foliage''.

A cherry tree was coming into bloom, shooting out a froth of sugar-pink blossoms. She could see from its size and the gnarled branches that it was a mature tree, yet still capable of putting on such a wonderful show. A new beginning every spring, even from an old tree.

Then there is my current reality, the smells that are constants in my life: lemon slices and fresh ginger, the sharp tannin and milky contrast of builder's tea, and the slightly sickly green scent of freshly cut flower stems. And not forgetting the classic ingredients of the chypre base of so many of my favorite perfumes- bergamot, oakmoss, patchouli and labdanum (rock rose)- which I'm finding so reassuring in this time of transition.

For no one really knows what color is, where it is, even whether it is. (Can it die? Does it have a heart?) Think of a honeybee, for instance, flying into the folds of a poppy: it sees a gaping violet mouth, where we see an orange flower and assume that it's orange, that we're normal. 39.

I invent her, then, as a woman emerging from the sea. A tall man meets here on the black sand. You've come back, he says. Can barely see her in the sea-light. They make love there, and become horses. As night grows black they become weeds

It is absurd, Barthes says, to try to flee from language's assertive nature 'adding to each sentence some little phrase of uncertainty, as if anything that came out of language could make language tremble.' My writing is riddled with such tics of uncertainty. I have no excuse or solution, save to allow myself the tremblings, then go back in later and slash them out. In this way I edit myself into a boldness that is neither native nor foreign to me.

On one hand, the Aristotelian, perhaps evolutionary need to put everything into categories– predators, twilight, edible – on the other, the need to pay homage to the transitive, the flight, the great soup of being in which we actually live.

Experienced builders and performers can attract up to thirty-three females to fuck per season if they put on a good enough show, have built up enough good blue in their bower, and have the contrast with the yellow straw down right. Less experienced builders sometimes don't attract any females at all. Each female mates only once. She incubates the eggs alone.

How could all the shreds of blue garbage bags stuck in brambles, or the bright blue tarps flapping over every shanty and fish stand in the world be, in essence, the fingerprints of god? I will try to explain this.

It is absurd, Barthes says, to try to flee from language's assertive nature by 'adding to each sentence some little phrase of uncertainty, as if anything that came out of language could make language tremble.' My writing is riddled with such tics of uncertainty. I have no excuse or solution, save to allow myself the tremblings, then go back in later and slash them out. In this way I edit myself into a boldness that is neither native nor foreign to me.

Generally speaking I do not hunt blue things down, nor do I pay for them. The blue things I treasure are gifts, or surprises in the landscape.

Les Bluets, which she painted in 1973

It is absurd, Barthes says, to try to flee from language's assertive nature by "add[ing] to each sentence some little phrase of uncertainty, as if anything that came out of language could make language tremble.

She is not yet where she needs to be, in the forest, alone, with the trees over her head. She is not alone.

Her feet moved over the earth with confidence and grace.

You might find it a restless, verdant, inconstant sight: the wind caresses, ruffles, disturbs the mass of leaves; each tree answers to the weather's ministrations at a slightly different tempo from its neighbour, bending and shuddering and tossing its branches, as if trying to get away from the air, from the very soil that nourishes