Garden Quotes - Page 38

• The front door shut, leaving Alec sitting in the half-lit garden, alone. He closed his eyes for a moment, the image of a face hovering behind his lids. Not Jace's face, for a change. The eyes set in the face were green, slit-pupiled. Cat eyes.

  Cassandra Clare

  Cat, Eye, Doors

  Cassandra Clare (2010). “Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instrument Series (3 books): City of Bones; City of Ashes; City of Glass”, p.880, Simon and Schuster

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• How to explain to the earth that it was more functional as a vegetable patch than a flower garden, just as factories were more functional than schools and boys were more functional as weapons than as humans.

  Kamila Shamsie

  Flower, School, Boys

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• Erik Erikson has commented: Potentially creative men like (Bernard) Shaw build the personal fundament of their work during a self-decreed moratorium, during which they often starve themselves, socially, erotically, and, at last but not least, nutritionally, in order to let the grosser weeds die out, and make way for the growth of their inner garden.

  Lewis Hyde

  Weed, Men, Self

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• Peter stood, cleared his throat, and began to hum softly, then sing, slowly building up the song as his voice cleared. He found the old tune, the song of the Sunbird. And as he sung, as his rich voice echoed off the tall cliffs, the birds and the faeries lent him their voice and soon the tune drifted throughtout the garden.

  Brom

  Song, Building Up, Voice

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• But in the garden the sun still shone. The innumerable bees hummed. The scent of thyme hung on the air. But only the Natterjack was there to breathe the fragrant essence of it. He and the garden were waiting. They were waiting for more children. They didn't care how long they waited. They had all the time in the world. -The Time Garden, Edward Eager

  Edward Eager

  Children, Air, Essence

  Edward Eager (2001). “The Time Garden”, p.171, Oxford University Press, USA

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• The green thumb is equable in the face of nature's uncertainties; he moves among her mysteries without feeling the need for control or explanations or once-and-for-all solutions. To garden well is to be happy amid the babble of the objective world, untroubled by its refusal to be reduced by our ideas of it, its indomitable rankness.

  Michael Pollan

  Moving, Ideas, Feelings

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• They love me like I was a brother They protect me, listen to me They dug me my very own garden Gave me sunshine, made me happy Nice dream, nice dream Nice dream

  Thom Yorke

  Dream, Brother, Nice

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• I decide that sometimes definitions are wrong. Even if they're written in a dictionary. Identities aren't always separate and distinct. Sometimes they ARE wrapped up with others. Sometimes, for a few minutes, maybe they can even be shared. And if I am ever fortunate enough to return to Mr. Bender's garden, I wonder if the birds will see that piece of him that is wrapped up in me.

  Mary E. Pearson

  Bird, Identity, Pieces

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• so my grandmother was not without humanity. and if she wore cocktail dresses when she labored in the garden, they were cocktail dresses she no longer intended to wear to cocktail parties. even in her rose garden she did not want to appear underdressed. if the dresses got too dirty from gardening, she threw them out. when my mother suggested to her that she might have them cleaned, my grandmother said, "what? and have those people at the cleaners what i was doing in a dress to make it that dirty?" from my grandmother i learned that logic is relative.

  John Irving

  Mother, Party, Dirty

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• I think infatuation is like a garden. If tended and cared for, it grows into love. If neglected or abused it dies. The only way to have eternal love is to never let your heart forget what it's like to live without it. -Vane

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Heart, Love Is, Thinking

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• She finds tales everywhere, in grains of sand she picks up from the garden, in puffs of smoke that drift out from the chimneys of the village, in fragments of smooth timber or glass in the jetsam. She will ask them, "Where did you come from? How did you get here?" And they will answer her in voices very like her own, but with new lilts and squeaks and splashes in them that show they are their own.

  David Almond

  Glasses, Voice, Puff

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• so i sneak out to the garden to see you, we keep quiet 'cause we're dead if they knew, so close your eyes, escape this town for a little while.

  Taylor Swift

  Eye, Littles, Towns

  Song: A Love Story, Album: Fearless

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• And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds and binding with briars my joys and desires. (from 'The Garden of Love')

  William Blake

  Joy, Black, Religion

  William Blake (2005). “Collected Poems”, p.75, Routledge

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• O grant me a house by the beach of a bay, Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers! And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

  Andrew Lang

  Summer, Weed, Beach

  Andrew Lang “The Selected Works of Andrew Lang”, Library of Alexandria

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• It is moonlight. Alone in the silence I ascend my stairs once more, While waves remote in pale blue starlight Crash on a white sand shore. It is moonlight. The garden is silent. I stand in my room alone. Across my wall, from the far-off moon, A rain of fire is thrown. There are houses hanging above the stars, And stars hung under the sea, And a wind from the long blue vault of time Waves my curtains for me. I wait in the dark once more, swung between space and space: Before the mirror I lift my hands And face my remembered face.

  Conrad Aiken

  Stars, Wall, Rain

  Conrad Aiken (1918). “The Charnel Rose. Senlin: Biography and Other Poems”, p.57, Ardent Media

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• You, Beloved, who are all the gardens I have ever gazed at, longing. An open window in a country house - , and you almost stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon, - you had just walked down them and vanished. And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us yesterday, separate, in the evening.

  Rainer Maria Rilke

  Country, Mirrors, Yesterday

  Rainer Maria Rilke, “You Who Never Arrived”

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• He stopped and looked at her. "Your eyes are leaking." "It's the flowers. They make me sneeze." "Then let us be away from the garden. Open the door, love, if you will." She obeyed, then froze halfway over the threshold. "What did you call me?" "The first of countless endearments if you'll but stir yourself to hold our current course.

  Lynn Kurland

  Flower, Eye, Doors

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• However entrancing it is to wander unchecked through a garden of bright images, are we not enticing your mind from another subject of almost equal importance?

  Dorothy L. Sayers

  Mind, Wander, Importance

  Dorothy L. Sayers (2012). “Strong Poison”, p.56, Open Road Media

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• When you reach the little house, the place your journey started, you will recognize it, although it will seem much smaller than you remember. Walk up the path, and through the garden gate you never saw before but once. And then go home. Or make a home. And rest.

  Neil Gaiman

  Home, Journey, House

  Neil Gaiman (2010). “Fragile Things”, p.126, Hachette UK

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• Then he kissed her, not just a brush of lips as she'd done, but a kiss a kiss that scalded her tongue. The tree burst into full blooms. The garden fluttered around her. A riot of flowers shot out of the earth. She was mud-covered as he pulled back.

  Melissa Marr

  Flower, Kissing, Tree

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• Under the ground seep the toxins of the population that lives above. If you have to, you will eat roots and earthworms. It is always night. Candles burn in lanterns made from tin cans. When it is nighttime up above, you can crawl out, but only for a little while. You feel ashamed of your matted hair, your torn clothes, the dirt on your face. Who would want to speak to you? They are all shiny and pretty. They have parents and house with gardens. What do you have? The earth. Whole handfuls of it. The lizard people with their slit eyes and scaly skin. Your loneliness. Your longing.

  Francesca Lia Block

  Loneliness, Eye, Night

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• When Švejk subsequently described life in the lunatic asylum, he did so in exceptionally eulogistic terms: 'I really don't know why those loonies get so angry when they're kept there. You can crawl naked on the floor, howl like a jackal, rage and bite. If anyone did this anywhere on the promenade people would be astonished, but there it's the most common or garden thing to do. There's a freedom there which not even Socialists have ever dreamed of.

  Jaroslav Hašek

  People, Naked, Would Be

  Jaroslav Hašek (1993). “The Good Soldier Svejk”, Everyman's Library

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• She remembered the story from her childhood, about Adam and Eve in the garden, and the talking snake. Even as a little girl she had said - to the consternation of her family - What kind of idiot was Eve, to believe a snake? But now she understood, for she had heard the voice of the snake and had watched as a wise and powerful man had fallen under its spell. Eat the fruit and you can have the desires of your heart. It's not evil, it's noble and good. You'll be praised for it. And it's delicious.

  Orson Scott Card

  Girl, Wise, Powerful

  Orson Scott Card (2013). “Ender's Game Boxed Set I: Ender's Game, Ender's Shadow, Shadow of the Hegemon”, p.484, Macmillan

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• The Garden is a metaphor for the following: our minds, and our thinking in terms of pairs of opposites--man and woman, good and evil--are as holy as that of a god. (50)

  Joseph Campbell

  Men, Thinking, Opposites

  Joseph Campbell (2001). “Thou Art that: Transforming Religious Metaphor”, p.50, New World Library

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• Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

  William Butler Yeats

  Hands, Rivers, White

  Poems (1895) "Down by the Salley Gardens"

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