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Love is the best school, but the tuition is high and the homework can be painful.

Diane Ackerman

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Diane Ackerman
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: October 7
Author
Naturalist
Non-Fiction Writer
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Waukegan
Illinois
Best
Love
Tuition
Homework
Painful
High
School

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After all, coffee is bitter, a flavor from the forbidden and dangerous realm.
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Of all the errands life seems to be running, of all the mysteries that enchant us, love is my favorite
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When I set a glass prism on a windowsill and allow the sun to flood through it, a spectrum of colors dances on the floor. What we call white is a rainbow of colored rays packed into a small space. The prism sets them free. Love is the white light of emotion.
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Home is where the heart is, we say, rubbing the flint of one abstraction against another.
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I'm an Earth ecstatic, and my creed is simple: All life is sacred, life loves life, and we are capable of improving our behavior toward one another. As basic as that is, for me it's also tonic and deeply spiritual, glorifying the smallest life-form and embracing the most distant stars.
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Hurricane season brings a humbling reminder that, despite our technologies, most of nature remains unpredictable.
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An occasion, catalyst, or tripwire?permits the poet to reach into herself and haul up whatever nugget of the human condition distracts her at the moment, something that can't be reached in any other way.
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It's essential to tailor rehab to what impassions someone. The brain gradually learns by riveting its attention-through endless repetitions.
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We evolved as creatures knitted into the fabric of nature, and without its intimate truths, we can find ourselves unraveling.
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Flight is nothing but an attitude in motion.
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We live on the leash of our senses.
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... love is an act of sedition, a revolt against reason, an uprising in the body politic, a private mutiny.
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On some summer days in New York City, the air hangs thickly visible, like the combined exhalations of eight million souls. Steam rising from vents underground makes you wonder if there isn't one giant sweat gland lodged beneath the city.
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There's no place you can go on the prairie that you don't hear the white noise of the wind, steady and rough as surf curling along a non-existant shore.
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We have vexed and bothered every plant and every animal on every continent.
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And yet, words are the passkeys to our souls. Without them, we can't really share the enormity of our lives.
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Culture is what people invent when they have lost nature.
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Look in the mirror. The face that pins you with its double gaze reveals a chastening secret.
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We can't enchant the world, which makes its own magic but we can enchant ourselves by paying deep attention
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What an odd, ruminating, noisy, self-interrupting conversation we conduct with ourselves from birth to death.
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