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“In a swamp, as in meditation, you begin to glimpse how elusive, how inherently insubstantial, how fleeting our thoughts are, our identities. There is magic in this moist world, in how the mind lets go, slips into sleepy water, circles and nuzzles the banks of palmetto and wild iris, how it seeps across dreams, smears them into the upright world, rots the wood of treasure chests, welcomes the body home.”
― Stirring the Mud: On Swamps, Bogs, and Human Imagination
― Stirring the Mud: On Swamps, Bogs, and Human Imagination
![John Steinbeck](https://cdn.statically.io/img/i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/authors/1182118389i/585._UX200_CR0,19,200,200_.jpg)
“A large drop of sun lingered on the horizon and then dripped over and was gone, and the sky was brilliant over the spot where it had gone, and a torn cloud, like a bloody rag, hung over the spot of its going. And dusk crept over the sky from the eastern horizon, and darkness crept over the land from the east.”
― The Grapes of Wrath
― The Grapes of Wrath
![Virginia Woolf](https://cdn.statically.io/img/i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/authors/1419596619i/6765._UX200_CR0,36,200,200_.jpg)
“... every flower seems to burn by itself, softly, purely in the misty beds; and how she loved the grey-white moths spinning in and out, over the cherry pie, over the evening primroses!”
― Mrs. Dalloway
― Mrs. Dalloway
![Peter S. Beagle](https://cdn.statically.io/img/i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/authors/1360970921i/1067608._UX200_CR0,24,200,200_.jpg)
“When I was alive, I believed — as you do — that time was at least as real and solid as myself, and probably more so. I said 'one o'clock' as though I could see it, and 'Monday' as though I could find it on the map; and I let myself be hurried along from minute to minute, day to day, year to year, as though I were actually moving from one place to another. Like everyone else, I lived in a house bricked up with seconds and minutes, weekends and New Year's Days, and I never went outside until I died, because there was no other door. Now I know that I could have walked through the walls. (...) You can strike your own time, and start the count anywhere. When you understand that — then any time at all will be the right time for you.”
― The Last Unicorn
― The Last Unicorn
![Aldo Leopold](https://cdn.statically.io/img/i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/authors/1238563948i/43828._UY200_CR0,0,200,200_.jpg)
“Out of the clouds I hear a faint bark, as of a faraway dog. It is strange how the world cocks its ear to that sound, wondering. Soon it is louder: the honk of geese, invisible, but coming on.
The flock emerges from the low clouds, a tattered banner of birds, dipping and rising, blown up and blown down, blown together and blown apart, but advancing, the wind wrestling lovingly with each winnowing wing. When the flock is a blur in the far sky I hear the last honk, sounding taps for summer.
It is warm behind the driftwood now, for the wind has gone with the geese. So would I--if I were the wind.”
―
The flock emerges from the low clouds, a tattered banner of birds, dipping and rising, blown up and blown down, blown together and blown apart, but advancing, the wind wrestling lovingly with each winnowing wing. When the flock is a blur in the far sky I hear the last honk, sounding taps for summer.
It is warm behind the driftwood now, for the wind has gone with the geese. So would I--if I were the wind.”
―
Molly’s 2023 Year in Books
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