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Word lessons, in particular the wouldst couldst shouldst have loved kind, were kept up, with much warlike thrashing, until I had committed the whole of French, Latin, and English grammars to memory.

John Muir

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John Muir
Age: 76 †
Born: 1838
Born: April 21
Died: 1914
Died: December 24
Author
Autobiographer
Botanist
Conservationist
Ecologist
Engineer
Essayist
Explorer
Geologist
Glaciologist
Inventor
Mountaineer
Naturalist
J. Muir
Lessons
Wouldst
Memories
Grammar
Loved
Latin
Particular
French
Word
Kept
Grammars
Whole
English
Shouldst
Much
Committed
Thrashing
Kind
Memory
Warlike

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These temple destroyers, devotees of ravaging commercialism, seem to have a perfect contempt for Nature, and, instead of lifting their eyes to the God of the mountains, lift them to the Almighty Dollar.
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The power of imagination is infinite.
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The tide of visitors will float slowly about the bottom of the valley as harmless scum collecting in hotel and saloon eddies, leaving the rocks and falls eloquent as ever.
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Wilderness is a necessity... there must be places for human beings to satisfy their souls.
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Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings.
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I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.
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Nature as a poet, an enthusiastic workingman, becomes more and more visible the farther and higher we go for the mountains are fountains – beginning places, however related to sources beyond mortal ken.
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All the world was before me and every day was a holiday, so it did not seem important to which one of the world's wildernesses I first should wander.
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Keep close to Nature's heart... and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.
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How many hearts with warm, red blood in them are beating under cover of the woods, and how many teeth and eyes are shining? A multitude of animal people, intimately related to us, but of whose lives we know almost nothing, are as busy about their own affairs as we are about ours.
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Who publishes the sheet-music of the winds or the music of water written in river-lines?
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Yet how hard most people work for mere dust and ashes and care, taking no thought of growing in knowledge and grace, never having time to get in sight of their own ignorance.
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When a man plants a tree, he plants himself.
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Go quietly alone, no harm will befall you.
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All wilderness seems to be full of tricks and plans to drive and draw us up into God's light.
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Any glimpse into the life of an animal quickens our own and makes it so much the larger and better in every way.
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I will follow my instincts, be myself for good or ill, and see what will be the upshot.
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The substance of the winds is too thin for human eyes, their written language is too difficult for human minds, and their spoken language mostly too faint for the ears.
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Listen to them! How wholly infused with God is this one big word of love that we call the world!
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Come to the woods, for here is rest. There is no repose like that of the green deep woods. Here grow the wallflower and the violet. The squirrel will come and sit upon your knee, the logcock will wake you in the morning. Sleep in forgetfulness of all ill. Of all the upness accessible to mortals, there is no upness comparable to the mountains.
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