Beauty . . . cannot be interpreted. It is not an empirically verifiable fact; it is not a quantity.

The soil is the great connector of our lives, the source and destination of all.

How do we submit? By not being radical enough. Or by not being thorough enough, which is the same thing.

The more artificial a human environment becomes, the more the word ‘natural’ becomes a term of value.

The people who benefit from this state of affairs have been at pains to convince us that the agricultural practices and policies that have almost annihilated the farming population have greatly benefited the population of food consumers. But more and more consumers are now becoming aware that our supposed abundance of cheap and healthful food is to a considerable extent illusory.

This is a book about Heaven. I know it now. It floats among us like a cloud and is the realest thing we know and the least to be captured, the least to be possessed by anybody for himself. It is like a grain of mustard seed, which you cannot see among the crumbs of earth where it lies. It is like the reflection of the trees on the water.

The river is of the earth and it is free. It is rigorously embanked and bound, and yet it is free. To hell with restraint, it says, I have got to be going. It will grind out its dams. It will go over or around them. They will become pieces.