Quotes About Landscape

is the mountain that lends its gregarious power to the multiple elements of this place.

Each place its own psyche. Each sky its own blue.

Our surmises regarding the subtle functions of neural processes within the brain are profoundly constrained by the fact that the brain did not evolve in order to understand itself. The complex organization of the brain evolved as a consequence of our sensorial and muscled engagement with the landscapes that surround us.

The world and I reciprocate one another. The landscape as I directly experience it is hardly a determinate object; it is an ambiguous realm that responds to my emotions and calls forth feelings from me in turn.

It was a delightful drive up to Great Falls. There were more trees than people, which is always a good sign.

It was a desolate landscape in which even the sparse olive trees looked ancient, skinny and thirsty.

The clearing was scattered with trunks of trees felled long ago.

Each year the snow tries to memorize, blindly, the landscape, as if it were the landscape that was going to melt in spring.

We only have two kinds of weather in California, magnificent and unusual.

A November stillness was settling like a deadly oxymoron on the April landscape.

The hedges and the acres and acres of lawn were covered in a network of spider web that caught the dew in beads so that it glistened white as frost.

The sky was a fierce, burning blue, the trees ferocious shades of red and yellow.

When he first returned to the Badlands in the summer of 1884, the austere landscape seemed to mirror his melancholy.

It was all wrong, ugly, unhappy and coloured with cynicism, but nothing was tragic, there were no moments that could change anything or anybody. From time to time the emotional lightning flashed and showed a landscape of private misery, and then — we went on dancing.

Black walnut trees dropped their green-black fuzzy bulbs on Aunt Ruth's matted lawn, past where their knotty roots rose up out of the ground like the elbows and knees of dirty children suntanned dark and covered with scars. Weeping willows marched across the yard, following every wandering stream and ditch, their long whiplike fronds making tents that sheltered sweet-smelling beds of clover.

Greenville, South Carolina, in 1955 was the most beautiful place in the world. Black walnut trees dropped their green-black fuzzy bulbs on Aunt Ruth's matted lawn, past where their knotty roots rose up out of the ground like the elbows and knees of dirty children suntanned dark and covered with scars. Weeping willows marched across the yard, following every wandering stream and ditch, their long whiplike fronds making tents that sheltered sweet-smelling beds of clover.

He'd always had a quickening of the heart when he crossed into Arizona and beheld the cactus country. This was as the desert should be, this was the desert of the picture books, with the land unrolled to the farthest distant horizon hills, with saguaro standing sentinel in their strange chessboard pattern, towering supinely above the fans of ocotillo and brushy mesquite.

he gave his mind and his eyes instead to the land, the mother of whiteness; to the falling snow, a host of dove-grey particles against the pale downy sky; a rush of white against the dark trees and bushes. To the sunlit snow, golden white against blue on the roofs of the villages, and the bright lime green and umber of the trunks of the thinning forests, their snow-white profiles lost to the vaster white space of the sky.

Reindeer blew like leaves across the white, blinding bowl of the landscape. The eye read them as script on a book-roll: the stretched neck, the tined bones of the antlers, the powerful, thick-pelted body; the long slurring stride with its snapping click as the cloven hooves met.

Wade tried to imagine Florida before the advent of man, but couldn't. The landscape seemed too thoroughly colonized -- the trailers, factory outlets, and cocktail shacks of the world below. He decided that if human beings took over the moon, they'd probably just turn it into Florida.

We instinctively wave to people on trains because trains are a metaphor for being alive: countless souls, trapped together, hurtling across the landscape, with a destination somewhere in the unseeable distance. Nobody ever waves at buses.

As they drove out of Fort Myers, taking SR 867 south, Coldmoon observed with curiosity the neighborhoods they were passing through. They were a mixture typical to Florida: some wealthy, some shabby, many in between—but all high density. It was amazing how many damn people there were in this state. In South Dakota there were stretches of highway where you could drive a hundred miles without seeing a house.

Even the vistas were tended, with view lines opened up to sacred architecture.

Such a landscape was best enjoyed from a car on a fine afternoon. You exclaimed, "Quel beau paysage!" and drove back to a good hotel.