The air smelled like Bayou Teche when it’s spring and the fish are spawning among the water hyacinths and the frogs are throbbing in the cattails and the flooded cypress.
If he had the earth for his pasture and the sea for his pond, he would be a pauper still. He only is rich who owns the day. There is no king, rich man, fairy or demon who possesses such power as that.
Sixty Days and Counting, by Kim Stanley Robinson
Nature has no originality–I mean, no large ability in the matter of inventing new things, new ideas, new stage effects. She has a superb and amazing and infinitely varied equipment of old ones, but she never adds to them. She repeats–repeats–repeats–repeats. Examine your memory and your experience; you will find it is true.
What are the temples which Roman robbers have reared, – what are the towers in which feudal oppression has fortified itself…to the deep forests which the eye of God has alone pervaded, and where Nature, in her unviolated sanctuary, has for ages laid her fruits and flowers on His altar! What is the echo of roofs…or or aisles that pealed the anthems of painted pomp, to the silence that has reigned in these dim groves since the first fiat of Creation was spoken.
Basically, having a gift for happiness was a bit like being good at maths or games: it depended partly on the development of the brain after you were born, ad even before, but also on how your parents or other adults had brought you up when you were small. And of course on your own efforts and subsequent encounters.
‘Nature or nurture,’ said the professor. ‘Whichever way, the parents are to blame!
If bees die, people will die. Only ignorance never dies! (“Why step out of nature ?”)
I went to the springs while the sun was still up, and sitting on a rocky outcrop above the cave mouth I watched the light grow reddish across the misty pools, and listened to the troubled voice of the water. After a while I moved farther up the hill, where I could hear birds singing near and far in the silence of the trees. The presence of the trees was very strong…The big oaks stood so many, so massive in their other life, in their deep, rooted silence: the awe of them came on me, the religion.
If the word of God cannot do it in your life then your Pastor must be wasting his time.
A verse from a short poem – ‘Philosophy is Forestry’s Child’ – in my Foreword:
Ask not which came first, the acorn or the oak.
We came as children of the forest;
First our wooden cradle, then our kindling for industry.
Instead think forward — trees will shelter us from ourselves.
He missed having a wild green world on his doorstep – no rabbits or pheasants or badgers.