Quote

Nature is more like a seesaw than a crystal, a never-ending conga line of bold moves and corrections.

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
Never
Crystals
Like
Bold
Ending
Moves
Conga
Line
Congas
Lines
Seesaw
Moving
Corrections
Nature
Crystal

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People search for love as if it were a city lost beneath the desert dunes, where pleasure is the law, the streets are lined with brocade cushions, and the sun never sets.
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Poetry reminds us of the truths about life and human nature that we knew all along, but forgot somehow because they weren't yet in memorable language.
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What would dawn have been like, had you awakened? It would have sung through your bones. All I can do this morning is let it sing through mine.
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Part of the irony of environmentalism is questing for solutions when you know you're part of the problem.
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History is an agreed-upon fiction.
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As people flock to urban centers where ground space is limited, cities with green walls and roofs and skyscraper farms offer improved health and well-being, renewable resources, reliable food supply, and relief to the environment.
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There are well-dressed foolish ideas just as there are well-dressed fools.
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Not much is known about alligators. They don't train well. And they're unwieldy and rowdy to work with in laboratories.
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Life becomes a lot simpler for a creative person when he or she finds the routine that works best. ... get in the habit of going through the routine every day, and on some of those days, you're going to be lucky and have done some good work. ... Go to your study, close the door, invent your confidence.
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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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I swear I will not dishonor my soul with hatred, but offer myself humbly as a guardian of nature, as a healer of misery, as a messenger of wonder, as an architect of peace.
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Libraries change lives. They are the soul of a people.
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The knowing, I told myself, is only a vapor of the mind, and yet it can wreck havok with one's sanity.
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Who would drink from a cup when they can drink from the source?
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The daftest logic brings such sweet unrest.
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There was nothing to do but wait. It is always like this for naturalists, and for poets--the long hours of travel and preparation, and then the longer hours of waiting. All for that one electric, pulse-revving vision when the universe suddenly declares itself.
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In our heart we know that life loves life. Yet we feast on some of the other life-forms with which we share our planet we kill to live. Taste is what carries us across that rocky moral terrain, what makes the horror palatable, and the paradox we could not defend by reason melts into a jungle of sweet temptations.
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Tranquillity hides in small spaces, and when found needs to be treasured, because you know it's a phantom that will slip away again.
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A poem records emotions and moods that lie beyond normal language, that can only be patched together and hinted at metaphorically.
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What an odd, ruminating, noisy, self-interrupting conversation we conduct with ourselves from birth to death.
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