Canyons Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
In the beginning - in the early days - they said, "We are making the world better. When we came to this place there was nothing except forest and wild animals and people who ran around naked. We have ended this. We have cut down trees and planted gardens. We have made meadows where we can raise the kind of animals we like. We have taught the naked people how to wear clothing. All this is good! And look at the other things we've done! We have dug rivers and brought water into our gardens. We have turned dry canyons into lakes. Now there is more food. Now there can be more people. Now our villages can grow large and rich!" 'After a while they began to notice that the world did not seem to be a better place. Everything seemed smaller and dirtier. Everything was wearing out - the soil, the hills, the rivers and lakes. The people said, "There is nothing new in this. There have always been places where the land is thin and useless. There have always been rivers where the water is not fit to drink. There is no problem." 'Things kept getting worse. Now the people said, "For everything that is gained, something must be lost. Look at what we have gained! Look at our villages full of big houses! Look at our houses full of many gifts! The forests that are gone have come back to us in gold. The rivers we cannot drink from have become jars full of bara." 'Finally everything became so bad that no one could come up with anything comforting to say. Then the people said, "Change is impossible. It's already too late. Anyway, we don't really mind the way things are."' I paused. 'Those are the four kinds of lie the people told. "We are making things better." "There is no problem." "There are no real gifts." "It is too late to change.

Eleanor Arnason
Did you ever think that maybe we're like that?' she asks me. I smile into the dark. How many times have I thought of myself as the ocean? 'You think we're like water?' Gemma sits up. The salty wind coming off the water snaps her hair around her shoulders. With one hand in the middle of my chest, she tries to push me into the sand. I'm strong enough to hold her off, but I don't want to. I willingly collapse back and she crawls over me. Holding a smile on her face, she slips her legs on either side of my hips and settles her weight on me. In a voice thin as smoke, she says, 'Well, maybe that's how we start. Maybe, in the beginning, we're nothing but a theoretical vast and empty sea with this huge open sky above us.' Her hands press down on my stomach and her fingers pull at the bottom of my shirt. She leans forward until her breasts are rubbing against me and her mouth is almost touching the skin of my neck. 'Then slowly, ' she continues, 'over time, the currents change and we build up these continents inside our bodies.' Now her fingers walk a path from my bellybutton to my sternum. 'And eventually, we have canyons and deserts and trees and beaches and all sorts of places where we can go and live.' I suck in a breath as Gemma flattens her hand on the skin just above my heart and kisses me just below my ear. Then she turns her face, fitting the crown of her head beneath my jaw and says, 'Most of the time we're safe on the land, but sometimes we get sucked out to sea. What do you think happens then?' I think about everything we've shared today. I think about Gemma and me. And how it feels like the geography inside of my own body is changing, how it's been changing from the moment I met her. Maybe even before that. And I think about the continents we're building between us. The bridges of land moving from her fingers to mine and the valleys and mountains formed by her lips on my skin and her words in my head. I use both of my hands to cup her face and pull her to my mouth. I press my lips to hers, parting her mouth and drinking in her breath. 'I think you'd have to start swimming.' A minute of silence ticks by. Over the low drone of the waves on the beach, she whispers, 'And what if you can't swim very well?' I think for a minute. 'Then you fly.

Autumn Doughton
I have hazarded into a new corner of the world, an unknown spot, a Brigadoon. Before me extends a low hill trembling in yellow brome, and behind the hill, filling the sky, rises an enormous mountain ridge, forested, alive and awesome with brilliant blown lights. I have never seen anything so tremulous and live. Overhead, great strips and chunks of cloud dash to the northwest in a gold rush. At my back the sun is setting- how can I have not noticed before that the sun is setting? My mind has been a blank slab of black asphalt for hours, but that doesn't stop the sun's wild wheel. I set my coffee on the curb; I smell loam on the wind; I pat the puppy; I watch the mountain. Shadows lope along the mountain's rumpled flanks; they elongate like root tips, like lobes of spilling water, faster and faster. A warm purple pigment pools in each ruck and tuck of the rock; it deepens and spreads, boring crevasses, canyons. As the purple vaults and slides, it tricks out the unleafed forest and rumpled rock in gilt, in shape-shifting patches of glow. These gold lights veer and retract, shatter, and glide in a series of dazzling splashes, shrinking, leaking, exploding. The ridge's bosses and hummocks sprout bulging from its sides; the whole mountain looms miles closer; the light warms and reddens; the bare forest folds and pleats itself like living protoplasm before my eyes, like a running chart, a wildly scrawling oscillography on the present moment. The air cools; the puppy's skin is hot. I am more alive than all the world. This is it, I think, this is it, right now, the present, this empty gas station, here, this western wind, this tang of coffee on the tongue, and I am patting the puppy, I am watching the mountain. Version 1 (joy)

Annie Dillard
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