The fig tree grows its flowers strangely inside out, concealed within the soft interior of the fruit. Erszébet imagines the fig’s hidden fairy weight of seeds, grown in sweetness that is also a darkness. Like treasure in a cave.
[All phenomena] are equally susceptible of being calculated, and all that is necessary, to reduce the whole of nature to laws similar to those which Newton discovered with the aid of the calculus, is to have a sufficient number of observations and a mathematics that is complex enough.
Stories nurture our connection to place and to each other. They show us where we have been and where we can go. They remind us of how to be human, how to live alongside the other lives that animate this planet. … When we lose stories, our understanding of the world is less rich, less true.
I don’t need your praise
to survive. I was here first,
before you were here, before
you ever planted a garden.
And I’ll be here when only the sun and moon
are left, and the sea, and the wide field.
I will constitute the field.
Plants have to eat, too,
The ocean fascinates me too. How it connects everything and everyone, but at the same time it divides us. It’s a mystery, full of life and possibilities. It’s just…phenomenal.
The view is endlessly fulfilling. It is like the answer to a lifetime of questions and vague cravings.
Have you noticed how dogs sniff at one another when they meet? It seems to be their nature.
– Yes; it’s a funny habit.
– No, it’s not funny; you are wrong there. There’s nothing funny in nature, however funny it may seem to man. If dogs could reason and criticize us they’d be sure to find just as much that would be funny to them, if not far more, in the social relations of men, their masters -far more, I think. I am more convinced that there is far more foolishness among us.
Sweet guardians of nature, attendeth my soul, when sorrows like tempests torment me; and all will be clearer whatever the toll as thou hushes the demons that vex me.
His (Samuel Coleridge) dark senses were constantly in play, the frustration of them bringing illness. Weather and organic nature combined in a synaesthetic multi-media event, and this was the ground of all perception before it was divded up in daily living: the Primary Imagination giving way to the Secondary. Poetry was forever seeking a conscious return to this state, which existed all the time, whether he knew it or not.