Quotes About Nature

Ese desenlace natural, ese final obligatorio que es la muerte, tiene siempre algo de regreso. Vuelta a la tierra nutricia; vuelta a la matriz de barro, de nuestro barro, que nunca va a ser igual a los otros barros del mundo. La muerte en el exilio es aparentemente la negación del regreso, y éste es quizá su lado más oscuro.

Mujer de sal y rocío tu corazón sigue en celo y tu voz está de duelo como la tierra y el río.

existe algo más natural que irse de este mundo?)

Mi mano derecha es una golondrina Mi mano izquierda es un ciprés Mi cabeza por delante es un señor vivo

Quién habrá inventado la música? ¿El viento? ¿El mar? ¿La lluvia? ¿Cuándo habrá nacido la armonía? ¿Qué habrá sonado primero? ¿El lenguaje de la brisa o el canto del ruiseñor? Desde

el lenguaje es también un jardín.

bueno, la muerte de Isabel es algo fuerte, pero no puedo llamarla terrible; después de todo, ¿existe algo más natural que irse de este mundo?), que frenaran mis mejores impulsos, que impidieran mi desarrollo

porque ahora sí lo averigüé todo y nosotras no venmis del semen sino de la almófera (125)

Escribe llubia porque en su campito nunca vio que lloviera con ve corta.

porque ahora sí lo averigüé todo y nosotras no venimos del semen sino de la almófera.

Una de las cosas más agradables de la vida: ver cómo se filtra el sol entre las hojas

The key point to keep in mind, however, is that symmetry is one of the most important tools in deciphering nature's design.

The Golden Ratio has the unique properties that we produce its square by simply adding the number 1 and its reciprocal by subtracting the number 1.

Indeed, the quality that made Newton's theories truly stand out-the inherent characteristic that turned them into inevitable laws of nature-was precisely the fact that they were all expressed as crystal-clear, self-consistent mathematical relations.

Some ancient Indian texts claim that numbers are almost divine, or "Brahma-natured.

He smelled the garden, the yellow shield of light smote his eyes, and he whispered, "Life is so beautiful." ... Yes, he thought, if I can die saying, "Life is so beautiful," then nothing else is important.

The secret is not to chase the butterflies.... It's to tend the garden so that they come to you and if they don't come at least you have a garden.

You should know better than to run from a storm, too. We wolves are careful. Always we are careful. But we are not afraid. Not of our own good world.(pp. 48)

Inside plum trees stood in a row, flowers lifted their pale throats to the moon and stars, a magnolia held its tight-closed buds like white candles in its green hands.

I am not necessarily a balanced person by nature, but I try. When I think a bad thought, I try to balance it out with a happy one. It doesn't work all the time, but if I do say so myself, over the years, I've gotten good at it.

The farmhouse sat on a rise at the end of a long dirt road, in a clearing surrounded by fruit trees and ninety acres of pines. It was painted white, and peeling, and some former hippie tenant had painted a mandala on the wall just inside the door with fine-point Magic Marker. I painted over it, but it bled through, again and again. I finally left it there, a pale and pastel version of itself, hanging ghostlike in the hall.

Sorrow was like the wind. It came in gusts.

Men had reached into the scrub and along its boundaries, had snatched what they could get and had gone away, uneasy in that vast indifferent peace; for a man was nothing, crawling ant-like among the myrtle bushes under the pines. Now they were gone, it was as though they had never been. The silence of the scrub was primordial. The wood-thrush crying across it might have been the first bird in the world—or the last.

You know what I wisht I had, Ma? A pouch like a 'possum, to tote things. --The Yearling