Czeslaw Milosz Quotes

I think that men's clothing should be functional. If there's a rip in his jeans, it should be because he was out working, not because he ripped them so they looked cool. It's even better if they're ripped because he got in a fight.

I've realized that I really like spending time in the countryside and having a garden.

There is a machismo about an American male who is robust, athletic, able to build things, and he takes care of stuff. And it's a point of pride.

Kurt Russell is the guy you know. He's not something out of a weight-lifting magazine or a cartoon character. The closest thing to him would have been Steve McQueen.

Traditional westerns typify some of the hardships men face: you have to be rugged, silent, stoic. It's a man against nature, against the world.

I want a manly man who's not afraid to get down and dirty.

It's incredibly important to my spirits and mental health that I come back to Minnesota and not be surrounded constantly with Hollywood life. Spending time in the backyard, helping out in the garden, going out to the lakes, reminds me of what's important and allows me to realign myself.

I'm happier in a garden.

In the woods we return to reason and faith.

The green thumb is equable in the face of nature's uncertainties; he moves among her mysteries without feeling the need for control or explanations or once-and-for-all solutions. To garden well is to be happy amid the babble of the objective world, untroubled by its refusal to be reduced by our ideas of it, its indomitable rankness.

The spectacle of the sky overwhelms me. Im overwhelmed when I see, in an immense sky, the crescent of the moon, or the sun. There, in my pictures, tiny forms in huge empty spaces. Empty spaces, empty horizons, empty plains - everything which is bare has always greatly impressed me.

Tis the hard grey weather Breeds hard English men.

Once in those very early days my brother brought into the nursery the lid of a biscuit tin which he had covered with moss and garnished with twigs and flowers so as to make it a toy garden or a toy forest. That was the first beauty I ever knew. What the real garden had failed to do, the toy garden did. It made me aware of nature-not, indeed, as a storehouse of forms and colors but as something cool, dewy, fresh, exuberant....As long as I live my imagination of Paradise will retain something of my brother's toy garden.

I fear I have not one good word to say this fair morning, though the sun shines so encouragingly on the distant hills and gentle river and the trees are in their festive hues. I am not festive, though contented. When obliged to give myself to the prose of life, as I am on this occasion of being established in a new home I like to do the thing, wholly and quite, - to weave my web for the day solely from the grey yarn.

Life is not orderly. No matter how we try to make life so, right in the middle of it we die, lose a leg, fall in love, drop a jar of applesauce. In summer, we work hard to make a tidy garden, bordered by pansies with rows or clumps of columbine, petunias, bleeding hearts. Then we find ourselves longing for the forest, where everything has the appearance of disorder; yet we feel peaceful there.

It is up to us to cultivate our garden.

If you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it's your world for a moment.

When we walk, we naturally go to the fields and woods: what would become of us, if we walked only in a garden or a mall? Even some sects of philosophers have felt the necessity of importing the woods to themselves, since they did not go to the woods. They planted groves and walks of Plantanes, where they took subdiales ambulationes in porticos open to the air. Of course, it is of no use to direct our steps to the woods, if they do not carry us thither.

I want to be a man's man - not a kid actor or a glitzy pop star but a no-bullshit leading man.

When we walk, we naturally go to the fields and woods: what would become of us, if we walked only in a garden or a mall?

The garden rose may richly bloom In cultured soil and genial air, To cloud the light of Fashion's room Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair, In lonelier grace, to sun and dew The sweetbrier on the hillside shows Its single leaf and fainter hue, Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose!

Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.

Why, Yrael?” it said, as the last of the dark gave way to silver, and the shining sphere of metal sank slowly to the ground. “Why?” “Life,” said Yrael, who was more Mogget than it ever knew. “Fish and fowl, warm sun and shady trees, the field mice in the wheat, under the cool light of the moon.

By going and coming, a bird weaves its nest.

The public must learn how to cherish the nobler and rarer plants, and to plant the aloe, able to wait a hundred years for it's bloom, or it's garden will contain, presently, nothing but potatoes and pot-herbs.