Quote

Some people miss flesh as a drunkard misses his dram.

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
Flesh
Missing
People
Dram
Drunkard
Misses
Drunkards
Miss

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Handle a book as a bee does a flower, extract its sweetness but do not damage it.
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Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings.
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I know that our bodies were made to thrive only in pure air, and the scenes in which pure air is found.
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We are in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us....How glorious a conversion, so complete and wholesome it is, scarce memory enough of old bondage days left as a standpoint to view it from! In this newness of life we seem to have been so always
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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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But to gain a perfect view, one must go yet further, over a curving brow to a slight shelf on the extreme brink.
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Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.
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See how God writes history. No technical knowledge is required only a calm day and a calm mind.
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Over the summit, I saw the so-called Mono desert lying dreamily silent in the thick, purple light -- a desert of heavy sun-glare beheld from a desert of ice-burnished granite.
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I...am always glad to touch the living rock again and dip my hand in the high mountain air.
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Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.
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Go quietly alone, no harm will befall you.
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Books are but stepping stones to show you where other minds have been.
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Ink cannot tell the glow that lights me at this moment in turning to the mountains. I feel strong [enough] to leap Yosemite walls at a bound.
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Man has injured every animal he has touched.
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Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.
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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.
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I wonder if leaves feel lonely when they see their neighbors falling?
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The mountains are fountains not only of rivers and fertile soil, but of men.
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Another glorious Sierra day in which one seems to be dissolved and absorbed and sent pulsing onward we know not where. Life seems neither long nor short, and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees and stars. This is true freedom, a good practical sort of immortality.
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