Only those within whose own consciousness the sun rise and set, the leaves burgeon and wither, can be said to be aware of what living is.

What a man knows is everywhere at war with what he wants.

There are some optimists who search eagerly for the skunk cabbage which in February sometimes pushes itself up through the ice, and who call it a sign of spring. I wish that I could feel that way about it, but I do not. The truth of the matter, to me, is simply that skunk cabbage blooms in the winter time.

It is not a sentimental, but a grimly literal fact that unless we share this terrestrial globe with creatures other than ourselves, we shall not be able to live on it for long.

We need some contact with the things we sprang from. We need nature at least as a part of the context of our lives. Without cities we cannot be civilized. Without nature, without wilderness even, we are compelled to renounce an important part of our heritage.

Both the cockroach and the bird would get along very well without us, although the cockroach would miss us most.

If we do not permit the earth to produce beauty and joy, it will in the end not produce food, either.