#garden

I am writing in the garden. To write as one should of a garden one must write not outside it or merely somewhere near it, but in the garden. ↗

— Frances Hodgson Burnett

#garden #i #i am #merely #must

I want to still be able to garden while I can bend over. ↗

— Barbara Bush

#bend #garden #i #i can #over

And, I mean, I think poetry does need to be met to some extent, especially, I guess, 19th century poetry, and for me, it's just been so worth the effort. It's like I'm planting a garden in my head. ↗

— Jane Campion

#been #century #does #effort #especially

I wake up some mornings and sit and have my coffee and look out at my beautiful garden, and I go, 'Remember how good this is. Because you can lose it.' ↗

— Jim Carrey

#beautiful #because #coffee #garden #go

If there is to be any hope of prosperity for this country it is by reversing that policy which made us simply the kitchen garden for supplying the British with cheap food. ↗

— Eamon de Valera

#british #cheap #country #food #garden

The true object of all human life is play. Earth is a task garden; heaven is a playground. ↗

— Gilbert K. Chesterton

#garden #heaven #human #human life #life

Criticism, that fine flower of personal expression in the garden of letters. ↗

— Joseph Conrad

#expression #fine #flower #garden #letters

At night in the tent, he leaves the flaps open, to feel the fire outside, to hear Anthony in the trailer, to see her better. She asks him to lie on his stomach, and he does, though he can't see her, while she runs her bare breasts over his disfigured back, her nipples hardening into his scars. You feel that? she whispers. Oh, he does. He still feels it. She kisses him from the top of his head downward, from his buzz-cut scalp, his shoulder blades, his wounds. Inch by inch she cries over him and kisses her own salt away, murmuring into him, why did you have to keep running? Look what they did to you. Why didn't you just stay put? Why couldn't you feel I was coming for you? You thought I was dead, he says. You thought I had been killed and pushed through the ice in Lake Ladoga. And what really happened was, I was a Soviet man left in a Soviet prison. Wasn't I dead? He is fairly certain he is alive now, and while Tatiana lies on top of his back and cries, he remembers being caught by the dogs a kilometer from Oranienburg and held in place by the Alsatians until Karolich arived, and being flogged in Sachsenhausen's main square and then chained and tattooed publicly with the 25-point star to remind him of his time for Stalin, and now she lies on his back, kissing the scars he received when he tried to escape to make his way back to her so she could kiss him. As he drives across Texas, Alexander remembers himself in Germany lying in the bloody straw after being beaten and dreaming of her kissing him, and these dreams morph with the memories of last night, and suddenly she is kissing not the scars but the raw oozing wounds, and he is in agony for she is crying and the brine of her tears is eating away the meat of his flesh, and he is begging her to stop because he can't take it anymore. Kiss something else, he pleads. Anything else. He's had enough of himself. He's sick of himself. She is tainted not just with the Gulag. She is tainted with his whole life. Does it hurt when I touch them? He has to lie. Every kiss she plants on his wounds stirs a sense memory of how he got them. He wanted her to touch him, and this is what he gets. But if he tells her the truth, she will stop. So he lied. No, he says. ↗

— Paullina Simons

#dreams

Little Sparta is a garden in the traditional sense. It is perhaps not like other modern gardens, but I think that other times would have had no difficulty with it. ↗

— Ian Hamilton Finlay

#garden #gardens #had #i #i think

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses. ↗

— Jean Cocteau

#bother #does #gardener #his #nor