Countryside Quotes

Quotes tagged as "countryside" Showing 1-30 of 87
Arthur Conan Doyle
“It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”
Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories, Volume I

Jeannette Walls
“Those shining stars, he liked to point out, were one of the special treats for people like us who lived out in the wilderness. Rich city folks, he'd say, lived in fancy apartments, but their air was so polluted they couldn't even see the stars. We'd have to be out of our minds to want to trade places with any of them.”
Jeannette Walls, The Glass Castle

Laurie Lee
“Bees blew like cake-crumbs through the golden air, white butterflies like sugared wafers, and when it wasn't raining a diamond dust took over which veiled and yet magnified all things”
Laurie Lee, Cider with Rosie

Neil Gaiman
“Chicago happened slowly, like a migraine. First they were driving through countryside, then, imperceptibly, the occasional town became a low suburban sprawl, and the sprawl became the city.”
Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Oswald Spengler
“Long ago the country bore the country-town and nourished it with her best blood. Now the giant city sucks the country dry, insatiably and incessantly demanding and devouring fresh streams of men, till it wearies and dies in the midst of an almost uninhabited waste of country.”
Oswald Spengler, The Decline of the West

Miss Read
“How lucky country children are in these natural delights that lie ready to their hand! Every season and every plant offers changing joys. As they meander along the lane that leads to our school all kinds of natural toys present themselves for their diversion. The seedpods of stitchwort hang ready for delightful popping between thumb and finger, and later the bladder campion offers a larger, if less crisp, globe to burst. In the autumn, acorns, beechnuts, and conkers bedizen their path, with all their manifold possibilities of fun. In the summer, there is an assortment of honeys to be sucked from bindweed flowers, held fragile and fragrant to hungry lips, and the tiny funnels of honeysuckle and clover blossoms to taste.”
Miss Read, Village Diary

Christopher Hitchens
“It was as easy as breathing to go and have tea near the place where Jane Austen had so wittily scribbled and so painfully died. One of the things that causes some critics to marvel at Miss Austen is the laconic way in which, as a daughter of the epoch that saw the Napoleonic Wars, she contrives like a Greek dramatist to keep it off the stage while she concentrates on the human factor. I think this comes close to affectation on the part of some of her admirers. Captain Frederick Wentworth in Persuasion, for example, is partly of interest to the female sex because of the 'prize' loot he has extracted from his encounters with Bonaparte's navy. Still, as one born after Hiroshima I can testify that a small Hampshire township, however large the number of names of the fallen on its village-green war memorial, is more than a world away from any unpleasantness on the European mainland or the high or narrow seas that lie between. (I used to love the detail that Hampshire's 'New Forest' is so called because it was only planted for the hunt in the late eleventh century.) I remember watching with my father and brother through the fence of Stanstead House, the Sussex mansion of the Earl of Bessborough, one evening in the early 1960s, and seeing an immense golden meadow carpeted entirely by grazing rabbits. I'll never keep that quiet, or be that still, again.

This was around the time of countrywide protest against the introduction of a horrible laboratory-confected disease, named 'myxomatosis,' into the warrens of old England to keep down the number of nibbling rodents. Richard Adams's lapine masterpiece Watership Down is the remarkable work that it is, not merely because it evokes the world of hedgerows and chalk-downs and streams and spinneys better than anything since The Wind in the Willows, but because it is only really possible to imagine gassing and massacre and organized cruelty on this ancient and green and gently rounded landscape if it is organized and carried out against herbivores.”
Christopher Hitchens, Hitch 22: A Memoir

Thomas Hardy
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,'
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.”
Thomas Hardy

William Wordsworth
“Is then no nook of English ground secure
From rash assault?”
William Wordsworth

Ethel Lilian Voynich
“High up on Monte Salvatore the window of some shepherd's hut opened a golden eye. The roses hung their heads and dreamed under the still September clouds, and the water plashed and murmured softly among the pebbles of the shore.”
E.L. Voynich

Edith Wharton
“...but these backwaters of existence sometimes breed, in their sluggish depths, strange acuities of emotion... ("Afterward")”
Edith Wharton, American Fantastic Tales: Terror and the Uncanny from Poe to the Pulps

A.E. Coppard
“Dim loneliness came imperceivably into the fields and he turned back. The birds piped oddly; some wind was caressing the higher foliage, turning it all one way, the way home. Telegraph poles ahead looked like half-used pencils; the small cross on the steeple glittered with a sharp and shapely permanence.”
A.E. Coppard, Dusky Ruth: And Other Stories

John Rawson

"Scant rain had fallen and the summer sun
Had scorched with waves of heat the ripening corn,
That August nightfall, as I crossed the down
Work-weary, half in dream. Beside a fence
Skirting a penning’s edge, an old man waited
Motionless in the mist, with downcast head
And clothing weather-worn. I asked his name
And why he lingered at so lonely a place.

“I was a shepherd here. Two hundred seasons
I roamed these windswept downlands with my flock.
No fences barred our progress and we’d travel
Wherever the bite grew deep. In summer drought
I’d climb from flower-banked combe to barrow’d hill-top
To find a missing straggler or set snares
By wood or turmon-patch. In gales of March
I’d crouch nightlong tending my suckling lambs.

“I was a ploughman, too. Year upon year
I trudged half-doubled, hands clenched to my shafts,
Guiding my turning furrow. Overhead,
Cloud-patterns built and faded, many a song
Of lark and pewit melodied my toil.
I durst not pause to heed them, rising at dawn
To groom and dress my team: by daylight’s end
My boots hung heavy, clodded with chalk and flint.

“And then I was a carter. With my skill
I built the reeded dew-pond, sliced out hay
From the dense-matted rick. At harvest time,
My wain piled high with sheaves, I urged the horses
Back to the master’s barn with shouts and curses
Before the scurrying storm. Through sunlit days
On this same slope where you now stand, my friend,
I stood till dusk scything the poppied fields.

“My cob-built home has crumbled. Hereabouts
Few folk remember me: and though you stare
Till time’s conclusion you’ll not glimpse me striding
The broad, bare down with flock or toiling team.
Yet in this landscape still my spirit lingers:
Down the long bottom where the tractors rumble,
On the steep hanging where wild grasses murmur,
In the sparse covert where the dog-fox patters.”

My comrade turned aside. From the damp sward
Drifted a scent of melilot and thyme;
From far across the down a barn owl shouted,
Circling the silence of that summer evening:
But in an instant, as I stepped towards him
Striving to view his face, his contour altered.
Before me, in the vaporous gloaming, stood
Nothing of flesh, only a post of wood.”
John Rawson, From The English Countryside: Tales Of Tragedy: Narrated In Dramatic Traditional Verse

“Monfleury est en vente, je perds cinquante mille francs, s'il le faut, mais je suis tout joyeux, je quitte cet enfer d'hypocrisie et de tracasseries. Je vais chercher la solitude et la paix champêtre au seul lieu où elles existent en France, dans un quatrième étage donnant sur les Champs-Élysées.”
Stendhal, The Red and the Black

Abby Clements
“Sometimes in life you just have to take a leap of faith.”
Abby Clements, Amelia Grey's Fireside Dream

Ana Gerhard
“Summer nights in the country are a hurly-burly of sounds.”
Ana Gerhard, Little Creatures: An Introduction to Classical Music

Suzy  Davies
“In the garden,
just we two,
Look! I have a rose
for you ...”
Suzy Davies

Steven Magee
“I am an expert on the language of crop circles.”
Steven Magee

Thomas Hardy
“L'unico esercizio fisico che Tess si concedeva a quell'epoca aveva luogo dopo il tramonto; solo allora, fuori nei boschi, le sembrava d'essere meno sola, sapeva come cogliere con precisione quell'attimo della sera, quando la luce e l'oscurità si compensano così equamente che le certezze del giorno e i dubbi della notte si neutralizzano, lasciando un'assoluta libertà mentale. È allora che il difficile impegno d'essere vivi si riduce al minimo. Non temeva le ombre, il suo unico pensiero sembrava quello di evitare l'umanità, o meglio, quella fredda sostanza in aumento chiamata mondo, che, così terribile nella massa, è così meschina, anzi penosa, nelle sue unità. Il suo incedere silenzioso su queste colline e valli solitarie si accordava perfettamente con l'elemento in mezzo a cui si muoveva. La sua figurina flessuosa e furtiva diveniva parte insostituibile della scena. A volte una stravagante fantasia la portava a rendere più intensi i processi della natura intorno a lei, fino a che sembravano partecipare alla sua stessa storia, anzi erano una parte della sua storia, perché il mondo è soltanto un fenomeno psicologico e tutto quello che sembra, in realtà esiste. Il vento improvviso e la brezza di mezzanotte, gemendo tra i germogli strettamente avviluppati e attraverso la corteccia dei ramoscelli invernali, erano forme di un amaro rimprovero. Un giorno piovoso era espressione di inconsolabile dolore per la sua debolezza da parte di un vago essere etico che lei non riusciva a classificare con precisione né come il Dio della sua fanciullezza, né come alcun altro essere.
Ma questo essere circondata da elementi caratterizzati, basati su frammenti di convenzione, popolati da fantasmi e da voci avverse, era una triste ed errata creazione della fantasia di Tess: una nube di folletti maligni che la terrorizzava senza ragione. Erano loro, non lei, ad essere esclusi dall'armonia del mondo reale. Camminando tra gli uccelli addormentati nelle siepi, osservando i conigli saltare leggeri nelle conigliere illuminate dalla luna, o fermandosi sotto a un ramo carico di fagiani, Tess si sentiva come un'immagine della Colpa introdottasi nel rifugio dell'Innocenza.
Voleva fare una distinzione dove non esisteva nessuna differenza. Si sentiva in antagonismo quando invece c'era un accordo perfetto. Aveva violato una legge sociale universalmente accettata, una legge sconosciuta al mondo che la circondava e dove supponeva di rappresentare una così grande anomalia.”
Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d'Urbervilles

Alix E. Harrow
“Dusk settled over our shoulders like a damp purple blanket. The river- the churn and clank of boat traffic, the shush of water, and the tangy smell of catfish and mud- was slowly beaten back by honeysuckle and cicadas and some bird that cooed the same three syllables in a lilting circle.
It was all so familiar and so foreign. I pictured a young girl in a blue cotton dress running down this same road on cinnamon-stick legs. Then I pictured another girl, white and square-jawed, running before her. Adelaide. Mother.
I would've missed it if I hadn't been looking: a narrow dirt drive crowded on either side by briars and untrimmed boughs. Even once I'd followed the track to its end I was uncertain- who would live in such a huddled, bent-back cabin, half-eaten by ivy and some sort of feral climbing rose? The wooden-shake shingles were green with moss; the barn had collapsed entirely.”
Alix E. Harrow, The Ten Thousand Doors of January

E.M. Forster
“The peace of the country was entering into her. It has no commerce with memory, and little with hope. Least of all is it concerned with the hopes of the next five minutes. It is the peace of the present, which passes understanding. Its murmur came "now," and "now" once more as they trod the gravel, and "now," as the moonlight fell upon their father's sword. They passed upstairs, kissed, and, and amidst the endless iterations fell asleep.”
E.M. Forster, Howard's End

Maurice Druon
“The sun still beats down warmly over the Sienese countryside in September, and the stubble left by harvest covers the fields with a sort of animal fur. It is one of the most beautiful countrysides in the world: God has drawn the curve of its hills with an exquisite freedom, and has given it a rich and varied vegetation among which the cypresses stand out like lords. Man has worked this earth to advantage and has spread his dwellings over it; but from the most princely villa to the humbles cottage they all have a similar grace and harmony with their ochre walls and curved tiles. The road is never monotonous; it winds and rises, only to descend into another valley between terraced fields and age-old olive groves. Both God and man have shown their genius at Siena.”
Maurice Druon, La flor de lis y el león

“When you leave your old neighborhood for your land, the city streets and businesses will almost instantly fade from your mind. The chirping of birds will replace the yelling of people.”
Norm Geddis, Off the Grid Financed Land Online: The Ultimate Guide to Seller Financed Land Ownership for Homes, Cabins, Hunting, and Investment.

Bette Howland
“In other words, life out here goes on - industriously. And it's not supposed to. It's supposed to stop, to hold still for us. Everyone knows that. Isn't that the proper definition of life in the country?”
Bette Howland, Blue in Chicago

Jimi Hendrix
“From the middle of a tomb whose lights burn only for survival...our tired bodies finally understand and obey our beating hearts.

Meet me in the country,
Meet me in the country,
The city's breath is getting way too evil to breathe.
Meet us in the country,
Leave the pigs and rats in the city—
Under the gypsy sun, we all will clearly reach the grace of living— give and receive with love and ease.
We'll dance to the drums of the open life...
love is the rhythm of man and wife...
faith in the beat for everyone.
God breathes music...through the life of the Gypsy Sun...”
Jimi Hendrix, Cherokee Mist: The Lost Writings

Mick Herron
“The exit inclined towards a roundabout from which Ho peeled off onto a minor road, its edges potholed and broken, and over which trees dangled follage like fishermen hoping for a bite.
Theoretically trees were a good thing, lungs of the planet, and Ho didn't mind them in parks, but out here they loomed too large, the way unleashed dogs acquired extra menace. They cast their shadows as if it were only by their permission that traffic was allowed to pass beneath, and Roddy Ho felt what he'd have called a threat to his sense of self, were such terms available to him. Instead, he simply noted that they were fucking creepy, and constituted a hazard. He made a mental note to do something about them, saved it in the folder When I'm King, and checked satnav again.”
Mick Herron, Real Tigers

Torron-Lee Dewar
“Higher desire and prices to live in overcrowded pollution. Lesser desire and prices to live in serene nature. It doesn't make sense regardless of what you say about opportunities.”
Torron-Lee Dewar

Abhijit Naskar
“Horses, boots and hats don't constitute country life, humility, simplicity and compassion do.”
Abhijit Naskar, Heart Force One: Need No Gun to Defend Society

Abhijit Naskar
“People from the country ought to be at the forefront of humankind's struggle for kindness and equality, and yet, the situation is quite the opposite.”
Abhijit Naskar, Heart Force One: Need No Gun to Defend Society

Dan Grajek
“Like Robert frost, my heart ached to be in the pastoral countryside. On the Interstate, you really never leave the city. The two asphalt slabs are always surrounded by a continuous, homogeneous channel of pavement, cables and wires, and urban sprawl.”
Dan Grajek, The Last Hobo: A Clueless Detroit Kid Hitchhikes Across America the Summer the Seventies Ran Out of Gas

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