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Human beings are sloshing sacks of chemicals on the move.

Diane Ackerman

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Diane Ackerman
Age: 75
Born: 1948
Born: October 7
Author
Naturalist
Non-Fiction Writer
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Waukegan
Illinois
Chemicals
Beings
Move
Moving
Human
Humans
Sloshing
Sacks

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In Manhattan last month I heard a woman borrowing the jargon of junkies to say to another, 'Want to do some chocolate?'
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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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For if I do something, I never do it thoughtlessly.
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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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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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No matter how politely one says it, we owe our existence to the farts of blue-green algae.
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We have vexed and bothered every plant and every animal on every continent.
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Look at your feet. You are standing in the sky. When we think of the sky, we tend to look up, but the sky actually begins at the earth.
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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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Wonder is the heaviest element on the periodic table. Even a tiny fleck of it stops time.
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Which is crueler, an old man's lost memories of a life lived, or a young man's lost memories of the life he meant to live?
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Writer's block is a luxury most people with deadlines don't have.
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In the winter, I enjoy cross-country skiing and raising orchids and amaryllises. If I could grow tropical flowers as perennials, I would, especially hibiscus and mandavilla.
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Our skin is what stands between us and the world.
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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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Smell brings to mind... a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years.
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Nature neither gives nor expects mercy.
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There is a way of beholding nature which is a form of prayer, a way of minding something with such clarity and aliveness that the rest of the world recedes. It . . . gives the brain a small vacation.
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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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