Forests Quotes - Page 33

• The leaves streamed down, trembling in the sun. They were not green, only a few, scattered through the torrent, stood out in single drops of green so bright and pure that it hurt the eyes; the rest were not a color, but a light, the substance of fire on metal, living sparks without edges. And it looked as if the forest were a spread of light boiling slowly to produce this color, the green rising in small bubbles, the condensed essence of spring. The trees met, blending over the road and the spots of sun on the ground moved with the shifting of the branches, like a conscious caress.

  Ayn Rand

  Hurt, Spring, Eye

  Ayn Rand (2005). “The Fountainhead”, p.480, Penguin

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• Winter then in its early and clear stages, was a purifying engine that ran unhindered over city and country, alerting the stars to sparkle violently and shower their silver light into the arms of bare upreaching trees. It was a mad and beautiful thing that scoured raw the souls of animals and man, driving them before it until they loved to run. And what it did to Northern forests can hardly be described, considering that it iced the branches of the sycamores on Chrystie Street and swept them back and forth until they rang like ranks of bells.

  Mark Helprin

  Love, Beautiful, Country

  Mark Helprin (2014). “A New York Winter's Tale”, p.227, Pan Macmillan

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• Roman influence seeds itself, sprouting mighty oaks right through the modern forest of computers, digital disks, microviruses and space satellites.

  Anne Rice

  Space, Digital, Computer

  Anne Rice (2011). “New Tales of the Vampires: includes Pandora and Vittorio the Vampire”, p.6, Ballantine Books

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• In the world I see you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rock feller Center. You'll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You'll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Towers. And when you look down, you'll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying stripes of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighways.

  Chuck Palahniuk

  Clothes, Rocks, Car

  "Fight Club". www.imdb.com. 1999.

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• The Forbidden Forest looked as though it had been enchanted, each tree smattered with silver, and Hagrid's cabin looked like an iced cake.

  J. K. Rowling

  Cake, Tree, Cabins

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• A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway.

  Charlotte Bronte

  Flower, Night, June

  Charlotte Bronte (2016). “Jane Eyre (World Classics, Unabridged)”, p.286, Vij Books India Pvt Ltd

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• Forest, I fear you! In my ruined heart your roaring wakens the same agony as in cathedrals when the organ moans and from the depths I hear that I am damned.

  Charles Baudelaire

  Heart, Agony, Depth

  Charles Baudelaire, Richard Howard (1983). “Les Fleurs Du Mal”, p.77, David R. Godine Publisher

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• Language is an old-growth forest of the mind.

  Wade Davis

  Growth, Mind, Language

  Wade Davis, Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (2009). “The wayfinders: why ancient wisdom matters in the modern world”, House of Anansi Pr

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• When we get out of the glass bottles of our ego, and when we escape like squirrels turning in the cages of our personality and get into the forests again, we shall shiver with cold and fright but things will happen to us so that we don't know ourselves. Cool, unlying life will rush in, and passion will make our bodies taut with power, we shall stamp our feet with new power and old things will fall down, we shall laugh, and institutions will curl up like burnt paper.

  D. H. Lawrence

  Fall, Passion, Squirrels

  David Herbert Lawrence (1994). “The Works of D.H. Lawrence: With an Introduction and Bibliography”, p.397, Wordsworth Editions

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• Au revoir, jewelled alligators and white hotels, hallucinatory forests, farewell.

  J. G. Ballard

  Farewell, White, Alligators

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• I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.

  Willa Cather

  Thinking, Tree, Way

  O Pioneers! pt. 2, ch. 8 (1913)

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• When shall I at last retire into solitude alone, without companions, without joy and without sorrow, with only the sacred certainty that all is a dream? When, in my rags—without desires—shall I retire contented into the mountains? When, seeing that my body is merely sickness and crime, age and death, shall I—free, fearless, and blissful—retire to the forest? When? When, oh when?

  Nikos Kazantzakis

  Dream, Joy, Fearless

  Nikos Kazantzakis, Carl Wildman (1953). “Zorba the Greek”, p.25, Simon and Schuster

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• But there was not a moment when she did not see Carol in her mind, and all she saw, she seemed to see through Carol. That evening, the dark flat streets of New York, the tomorrow of work, the milk bottle dropped and broken in her sink, became unimportant. She flung herself on her bed and drew a line with a pencil on a piece of paper. And another line, carefully, and another. A world was born around her, like a bright forest with a million shimmering leaves.

  Patricia Highsmith

  New York, Dark, Broken

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• I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chains - I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs. I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar cane; I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs. I will go out until the day, until the morning break - Out to the wind's untainted kiss, the water's clean caress; I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake. I will revisit my lost love and playmates masterless!

  Rudyard Kipling

  Morning, Lost Love, Kissing

  Rudyard Kipling (1993). “The Jungle Book”, p.140, Wordsworth Editions

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• Mamma," whispered Rannoch as he nestled by her side, "what is man?" Bracken looked into her calf's eyes. "Man? Man is something you must always fear." "But why must I fear him?" asked Rannoch. "Because, my little one...man is cruel and cold. He eats up everything he touches. He enslaves Lera and breaks the laws of the forest. Because, Rannoch, he is the only creature that hunts without need.

  David Clement-Davies

  Eye, Men, Law

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• It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble churches opposite, and, close below, Arno, gurgling against the embankment of the road.

  E. M. Forster

  Beautiful, Sports, Eye

  E. M. Forster (2013). “Delphi Collected Works of E. M. Forster (Illustrated)”, p.361, Delphi Classics

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• Once upon a time, there was a little creature that was rather small and rather wicked and it lived all alone in the woods. The little creature lived in a little den, at the bottom of a little ravine, filled with not-at-all little brambles and on the edge of a forest that could only be described as really freakin' huge.

  Ursula Vernon

  Once Upon A Time, Wicked, Littles

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• We have great cities to visit: New York and Washington, Paris and London; and further east, and older than any of these, the legendary city of Samarkand, whose crumbling palaces and mosques still welcome travelers on the Silk road. Weary of cities? Then we’ll take to the wilds. To the islands of Hawaii and the mountains of Japan, to forests where Civil War dead still lie, and stretches of sea no mariner ever crossed. They all have their poetry: the glittering cities and the ruined, the watery wastes and the dusty; I want to show you them all. I want to show you everything.

  Clive Barker

  New York, War, Lying

  "Galilee". Book by Clive Barker, February 3, 1999.

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• The tree that never had to fight for sun and sky and air and light but stood out in the open plain and always got it share of rain, never became a forest king but lived and died a scrubby thing. Good timber does not grow with ease. The stronger wind, the stronger trees.

  Douglas Malloch

  Kings, Rain, Fighting

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• I surrendered my beliefs and found myself at the tree of life injecting my story into the veins of leaves only to find that stories like forests are subject to seasons

  Saul Williams

  Tree, Stories, Veins

  Saul Williams (2009). “, said the shotgun to the head.”, p.88, Simon and Schuster

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• Barring love I'll take my life in large doses alone--rivers, forests, fish, grouse, mountains. Dogs.

  Jim Harrison

  Dog, Rivers, Mountain

  Jim Harrison (2016). “Wolf”, p.108, Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

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• You've only got to begin to do anything to find out how few honest, honourable people there are. Sometimes, when I can't sleep, I think: "Oh Lord, you've given us huge forests, infinite fields, and endless horizons, and we, living here, ought really to be giants.

  Anton Chekhov

  Sleep, Thinking, People

  Anton Chekhov (2015). “Greatest Works of Anton Chekhov: Plays, Short Stories, Novel and A Biography (Including The Steppe, Ward No. 6, Uncle Vanya, The Cherry Orchard, Three Sisters, On Trial, The Darling, The Bet, Vanka, After the Theatre and many more)”, p.575, e-artnow

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• I'm not blessed, or merciful. I'm just me. I've got a job to do, and I do it. Listen: even as we're talking, I'm there for old and young, innocent and guilty, those who die together and those who die alone. I'm in cars and boats and planes; in hospitals and forests and abbatoirs. For some folks death is a release, and for others death is an abomination, a terrible thing. But in the end, I'm there for all of them.

  Neil Gaiman

  Jobs, Blessed, Talking

  "The Sandman: Dream Country". Comic book by Neil Gaiman, 1990.

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• Often, though, the passivity of the woman's role weighs on me, suffocates me. Rather than wait for his pleasure, I would like to take it, to run wild. Is it that which pushes me into lesbianism? It terrifies me. Do women act thus? Does June go to Henry when she wants him? Does she mount him? Does she wait for him? He guides my inexperienced hands. It is like a forest fire, to be with him. New places of my body are aroused and burnt. He is incendiary. I leave him in an unquenchable fever.

  Anais Nin

  Running, Fire, June

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• As you walk through forests or the meadows of your mind, Stop and talk to those you fear Good friendships you may find

  Stephen Cosgrove

  Mind, May, Good Friendship

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