The shoddy work of despair, the pointless work of pride, equally betray Creation. They are wastes of life.

There’s nothing under the ground that’s worth more than the little layer of topsoil sitting on top of it.

and in some of the people of the town and community surrounding it, one of the characteristic diseases of the twentieth century was making its way: the suspicion that they would be greatly improved if they were somewhere else.

For the true measure of agriculture is not the sophistication of its equipment the size of its income or even the statistics of its productivity but the good health of the land.

It's impossible to contemplate the life of soil very long without seeing its analogy to the life of the spirit.

I think the issues of identity mostly are poppycock. We are what we have done, which includes our promises, includes our hopes, but promises first.

To cherish what remains of the Earth and to foster its renewal is our only legitimate hope of survival.