Quotes About Nature

Any human who dared to attack a dragon deserved to die himself. And dead, of what use was he, unless someone ate him? She didn't see why leaving a human to be eaten by worms was more acceptable.

The carriageway to the front door was wide, and graceful white birches lined it. In autumn they shed a carpet of gold on the road, and in winter, burdened with snow, they arched over it, a frosted white tunnel paned with glimpses of blue sky.

Ah, Fitz, Fitz, we are who we are and who we ever must be.

You and I, we are like buds grafted onto a tree. We can grow true to ourselves, but only so much as our roots will allow us

I have been in howling storms in which a shout is reduced to a whisper, moved across the sea's featureless face in a gray fog that does not yield to human eyes.

I rode a horse, didn't I, when I had one? Was it because I was better than the horse that I bent it to my will? I'd used dogs to hunt for me, and hawks on occasion. What right had I to command them? There I sat, stripping the hide off a porcupine to eat it. I spoke slowly. 'Are we better than this porcupine that we are about to eat? Or is it only that we have bested it today?

Few things are so exhilarating as good health on a clear spring morning

Dawn came as early as it always does

Men cannot grieve as dogs do. We should be grateful for that.

I knew how small creatures that were too different were treated. I'd seen crippled chicks pecked to death, witnessed cows that nudged away a weak calf, the runt piglet pushed away from a nipple. I had no reason to think that people were any better than animals in that regard.

They also found the cocooned dragons. They had no idea that was what they were, of course. They thought … who knows what they thought at first? Perhaps they seemed like massive sections of tree trunks. So they refer to it: wizardwood.

Is it the nature of the world that all things seek a rhythm, and in that rhythm a sort of peace? Certainly it has always seemed so to me. All events, no matter how earth-shaking or bizarre, are diluted within moments of their occurrence by the continuance of the necessary routines of day-to-day living.

The pack does not die if the cub survives. Be a wolf, my brother. Things are clearer so.

I sat listening to the birdcalls and smelling the new day's warmth touching the earth. Such things have always been a deep comfort to me. This morning they affirmed the goodness of the earth always goes on and made me wish that I could stay to watch the summer grow strong and the fruit swell on the trees. p. 65

It was immensely attractive, in the way that a sparkling creek glimpsed through trees draws the eye, or the smell of fresh-baked bread wakes hunger.

In the space of a sundown, you show me the wide world from a horse's back, and the soul of the world within my own walls.

Awe flowed through him with his blood. Tree. Bark and sap, the scent of the wood and the leaves fluttering overhead. Tree. But also the soil and the water, the air and the light, all was coming and going through the being known as tree. He moved with them, sliding in and out of an existence of bark and leaf and root, air and water.

When I had encountered the Skill joy, I had not found it the tawdry pleasure Galen had implied. Rather, it had been the same rush of blood and thunder of earth that sometimes music brought to me, or a sudden flight of bright pheasant in an autumn wood, or even the pleasure of taking a horse perfectly over a difficult jump. That instant when all things come into balance, and for a moment turn together as perfectly as birds wheeling in flight.

In every building, in every garden, at every turn the visitor finds the austere beauty and simplicity of color and form that are the Mountain ideal. The overall impression that one carries away is of tranquillity and joy in the natural world. The chosen simplicity of life there may lead the visitor to question his own choice in life.

I had a bottle of wine, bread, apples, cheese, sausages, and a ferret in a basket beside me, and a cushion to perch on. I

You speak of passing time as in the Mountains we speak of passing wind. As if it were a thing to be gotten rid of.

In truth, I believe the Wit is as natural a magic as a man can claim. It is the Wit that lets a flock of birds in flight suddenly wheel as one, or a school of fingerlings hold place together in a swiftly flowing stream. It is also the Wit that sends a mother to her child's bedside just as the babe is awakening. I believe it is at the heart of all wordless communication, and that all humans possess some small aptitude for it, recognized or not.

We do not share. We are one. I am no longer a wolf, you are no longer a man. What we are together, I have no name for. Perhaps the one who spoke to us of the Old Blood would have a word to explain it. He paused. See how much a man I am, that I speak of having a word for an idea? No word is needed. We exist, and we are whatever we are.

Torg, Vivacia reflected, was a piece of carrion that, overturned, now showed its working maggots to the daylight.