Beautiful Scenery Quotes

Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene, I hardly paid it any mind. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that eighteen years later I would recall it in such detail. I didn't give a damn about the scenery that day. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the beautiful girl walking next to me. I was thinking about the two of us together, and then about myself again. It was the age, that time of life when every sight, every feeling, every thought came back, like a boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. The scenery was the last thing on my mind.

Even the most beautiful scenery is no longer assured of our love after we have lived in it for three months, and some distant coast attracts our avarice: possessions are generally diminished by possession.

When we rejoice in beautiful scenery, great art, and great music, it is but the flexing of instincts acquired in another place and another time.

That is what is wrong with cold people. Not that they have ice in their souls - we all have a bit of that - but that they insist every word and deed mirror that ice. They never learn the beauty or value of gesture. The emotional necessity. For them, it is all honesty before kindness, truth before art. Love is art, not truth. It's like painting scenery.

Today was about chasing sun-rays, beach waves, & sunsets. All things beautiful that give you peace are worth chasing. Everything else isn't.

But what I wanted to say is this: After the period of melancholy is over you will be stronger than before, you will recover your health, & you will find the scenery round you so beautiful that you will want nothing but paint

I began my studies with eagerness. Before me I saw a new world opening in beauty and light, and I felt within me the capacity to know all things. In the wonderland of Mind I should be as free as another [with sight and hearing]. Its people, scenery, manners, joys, and tragedies should be living tangible interpreters of the real world. The lecture halls seemed filled with the spirit of the great and wise, and I thought the professors were the embodiment of wisdom... But I soon discovered that college was not quite the romantic lyceum I had imagined. Many of the dreams that had delighted my young inexperience became beautifully less and "faded into the light of common day." Gradually I began to find that there were disadvantages in going to college. The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college there is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures – solitude, books and imagination – outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day.

Scenery is here. Wish you were beautiful.

There are cities that get by on their good looks, offer climate and scenery, views of mountains or oceans, rockbound or with palm trees; and there are cities like Detroit that have to work for a living, whose reason for being might be geographical but whose growth is based on industry, jobs. Detroit has its natural attractions: lakes all over the place, an abundance of trees and four distinct seasons for those who like variety in their weather, everything but hurricanes and earth-quakes. But it’s never been the kind of city people visit and fall in love with because of its charm or think, gee, wouldn’t this be a nice place to live.

Perception is like painting a scenery - no matter how beautifully you paint, it will still be a painting of the scenery, not the scenery itself.

...beauty is a world betrayed. The only way we can encounter it is if its persecutors have overlooked it somewere. Beauty hides behind the scenes of the May Day parade. If we want to find it, we must demolish the scenery.

Traveling don't just captures beautiful scenery but it also captures life's stories

Oh fair enough are sky and plain, But I know fairer far: Those are as beautiful again That in the water are; The pools and rivers wash so clean The trees and clouds and air, The like on earth was never seen, And oh that I were there. These are the thoughts I often think As I stand gazing down In act upon the cressy brink To strip and dive and drown; But in the golden-sanded brooks And azure meres I spy A silly lad that longs and looks And wishes he were I.

Life has its ups and downs. When you are up, enjoy the scenery. When you are down, touch the soul of your being and feel the beauty.

Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure; her broad, deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine - no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery.

The beauty of the journey is found not in the destination, but in the scenery along the way.

He seemed like he would be able to sit in a field near Chernobyl and marvel at the beautiful scenery.

The sounds I had heard seemed worthy to mingle with this bright and perfumed atmosphere, and to thrill the beautiful scenery around me.

As I walked, I was thinking about the Great and Secret Knowledge, which the Other says will grant us strange new powers. And I realised something. I realised that I no longer believed in it. Or perhaps that is not quite accurate. I thought it was possible that the Knowledge existed. Equally I thought that it was possible it did not. Either way it no longer mattered to me. I did not intend to waste my time looking for it any more. This realisation – the realisation of the Insignificance of the Knowledge – came to me in the form of a Revelation. What I mean by this is that I knew it to be true before I understood why or what steps had led me there. When I tried to retrace those steps my mind kept returning to the image of the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall in the Moonlight, to its Beauty, to its deep sense of Calm, to the reverent looks on the Faces of the Statues as they turned (or seemed to turn) towards the Moon. I realised that the search for the Knowledge has encouraged us to think of the House as if it were a sort of riddle to be unravelled, a text to be interpreted, and that if ever we discover the Knowledge, then it will be as if the Value has been wrested from the House and all that remains will be mere scenery. The sight of the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall in the Moonlight made me see how ridiculous that is. The House is valuable because it is the House. It is enough in and of Itself. It is not the means to an end. This thought led on to another. I realised that the Other’s description of the powers that the Knowledge will grant has always made me uneasy. For example: he says that we will have the power to control lesser minds. Well, to begin with there are no lesser minds; there are only him and me and we both have keen and lively intellects. But, supposing for a moment that a lesser mind existed, why would I want to control it?

He drew in a breath and all the seasons were in it; spring greenness in the grass, and somewhere a dog-rose blooming; the secretive scent of fungus clinging to the oak, and underneath it all something sharper waiting in a promise of winter.

such was the beauty of the landscape, that a lover of scenery would be tempted thus to lose himself.

Evening Primrose When once the sun sinks in the west, And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast; Almost as pale as moonbeams are, Or its companionable star, The evening primrose opes anew Its delicate blossoms to the dew; And, hermit-like, shunning the light, Wastes its fair bloom upon the night, Who, blindfold to its fond caresses, Knows not the beauty it possesses; Thus it blooms on while night is by; When day looks out with open eye, Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun, It faints and withers and is gone.

and I am sure that food is much more generally entertaining than scenery.  Do you give in, as Walt Whitman would say, that you are any the less immortal for that?  The true materialism is to be ashamed of what we are.  To detect the flavour of an olive is no less a piece of human perfection than to find beauty in the colours of the sunset.

To live means to cry, to shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to laugh, even to experience horrible, frightening things. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, nausea, people singing, planes flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouthwatering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn

Cambridge is beautiful... but... it doesn't have the power to heal and uplift as these forests and hills do. Buildings don't soothe you in the way that natural scenery does.

Beautiful winter means beautiful spring! When you look at a great winter scenery, see the flowers, see the bees, see the butterflies, they are all there!

It says: ‘Scenery is here. Wish you were beautiful.

Wow, everything is so beautiful. The lights, the trees, the snow,” Freya says in awe. I agree. “It really is.” Except I’m not looking at the scenery, I’m looking at her.

The sublime and yet softened beauty of the scenery around, had filled the soul of Stanton with delight, and he enjoyed that delight as Englishmen generally do, silently.

If you're looking for a change of scenery, choose beautiful scenery.

To live imeans: to cry and shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to even experience horrible, frightening things... and to laugh. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, feeling nauseous, people singing, planes flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouth-watering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn...

But the chapel, that will never be prosaic. Those who have seen it outlined against the sunset or the full moon, those who have seen its sloping leaded roof-top glisten after a shower of rain, those who have looked down upon the world from its summit, all those who have seen these things will remember the poetry that it has taught them. And while each man changes from year to year, going through the continual changes that make a lifetime, the chapel remains always the same. When the rest of Cambridge is crumbling and in ruins, the chapel will still be standing, the last to fall to time as it is the last to fall to climbers.

I took a trip to see the beautiful things. Change of scenery. Change of heart. And do you know? What? They’re still there. Ah, but they won’t be there for long. I know. That’s why I went. To say goodbye. Whenever I travel, it’s always to say goodbye.

The obvious pollution occurring in many places - worst of all, in the planned societies- has encouraged the growth of the environmental movement, which, however, as shown in previous chapters, has an agenda that goes far beyond clean-up and beautification, far beyond the stewardship of nature that is commanded by ancient religious tradition. Embracing the "biospheric vision" in the "spirit of deep ecology", the movement sees human beings as the chief enemy in the struggle on behalf of a deified Nature. The environmental movement, therefore, is the perfect vehicle for population control. It is popular - people do love trees and animals and beautiful scenery - and it is unequivocal in its devotion to reducing human numbers. The environmental agencies of the United Nations, with their chilling blueprints for "demographic transition" and a standardless, undefined but totally planned and controlled "sustainable development", combine the fervor of nature worship with the lack of accountability of an unelected, international bureaucracy.

As far as he could tell, suicidal people were often in a strangely romantic mood. It was part of the reason why people still flocked to famous suicide spots as Mount Mihara and Kegon Waterfall—the lure of tradition, and the desire to decorate one’s last moments with a bit of beautiful scenery.

Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came—oh, my beautiful love!— and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection.

beautiful scenery that you would not see on a highway. Avoidance keeps the cycle of post-traumatic stress going. Avoidance robs you of the chance to learn that you are, for the most part, safe in the present. It also robs you of the opportunity to know that you can handle your memories, thoughts, and emotions.

And in what business is there not humbug? “There’s cheating in all trades but ours,” is the prompt reply from the boot-maker with his brown paper soles, the grocer with his floury sugar and chicoried coffee, the butcher with his mysterious sausages and queer veal, the dry goods man with his “damaged goods wet at the great fire” and his “selling at a ruinous loss,” the stock-broker with his brazen assurance that your company is bankrupt and your stock not worth a cent (if he wants to buy it,) the horse jockey with his black arts and spavined brutes, the milkman with his tin aquaria, the land agent with his nice new maps and beautiful descriptions of distant scenery, the newspaper man with his “immense circulation,” the publisher with his “Great American Novel,” the city auctioneer with his “Pictures by the Old Masters”—all and every one protest each his own innocence, and warn you against the deceits of the rest. My inexperienced friend, take it for granted that they all tell the truth—about each other! and then transact your business to the best of your ability on your own judgment.

The inability of Americans to value intellect is, to me, maddening. If someone possesses physical beauty they will not be cloistered or hidden in dark shadows. No, they are expected to be a source of pleasing scenery to others. We are not frightened in this country by beauty. We celebrate it, as we should. But what about beautiful brains, the kind that create amazing worlds out of nothing but thoughts, that can find a way to intricately bond elements of our lives that common wisdom tells us are inert? Why should anyone hide this intellect ever? No. Fuck boring financiers like Warren Buffett...there is no such thing as unnecessary beauty, physical or intellectual.

Why We Tell Stories I Because we used to have leaves and on damp days our muscles feel a tug, painful now, from when roots pulled us into the ground and because our children believe they can fly, an instinct retained from when the bones in our arms were shaped like zithers and broke neatly under their feathers and because before we had lungs we knew how far it was to the bottom as we floated open-eyed like painted scarves through the scenery of dreams, and because we awakened and learned to speak

Fear, hydra-headed fear, which is rampant in all of us, is a hang-over from lower forms of life. We are straddling two worlds, the one from which we have emerged and the one towards which we are heading. This is the deepest meaning of the word human, that we are a link, a bridge, a promise. It is in us that the life process is being carried to fulfillment. We have a tremendous responsibility, and it is the gravity of that which awakens our fears. We know that if we do not move forward, if we do not realize our potential being, we shall relapse, sputter out, and drag the world down with us. We carry Heaven and Hell within us; we are the cosmogonic builders. We have choice—and all creation is our range. For some it a terrifying prospect. It would be better, think they, if Heaven were above and Hell below—anywhere outside, but not within. But that comfort has been knocked from under us. There are no places to go to, either for reward or punishment. The place is always here and now, in your own person and according to your own fancy. The world is exactly what you picture it to be, always, every instant. It is impossible to shift the scenery about and pretend that you will enjoy another, a different act. The setting is permanent, changing with the mind and heart, not according to the dictates of an invisible stage director. You are the author, director and actor all in one: the drama is always going to be your own life, not some one else’s. A beautiful, terrible, ineluctable drama, like a suit made of your own skin. Would you want it otherwise? Could you invent a better drama?

A beautiful aspect of life is the scenery that the earth provides.

It’s impossible to plan things past a certain point, and even before that point your plans aren’t guaranteed. But if you can keep steady, drive down that road and get over those humps that are inevitably going to pop up, chances are there’ll be a nice stretch of paved concrete in between and you can enjoy the scenery...Or there might not be, who knows. The whole goddamn road could look like the surface of the moon and send you flying into a fucking tree. Doesn’t really matter, because the point is you have to keep driving anyways. Just keep driving and eventually you’ll reach a point where the scenery will be so beautiful, it’ll take your mind off how long you’ve been on that road. Which is really all you can ask for.

We must see that there is a sublimity and majesty in monotony, when there is not a frequent or rapid variation. This is true throughout all nature. The greater part of the sublimity of the sea depends on its monotony. So also that of desolate moor and mountain scenery; and especially the sublimity of motion.So also there is sublimity in darkness when there is no light.

Life is a one way journey, So don't waste your moment. Enjoy the beauty and scenery, fill your heart with love and joyment. Life is a one way journey. Always we are getting ready, not for the game of tourney, But for miracles and joy of heady. Life is a one way journey. We always hope and dream to live, but not on a beautiful gurney, but with vigor and beauty to thrive.

the only prospect which is really desirable or delightful, is that from the window of the breakfast-room [...] where we meet the first light of the dewy day, the first breath of the morning air, the first glance of gentle eyes; to which we descend in the very spring and elasticity of mental renovation and bodily energy, in the gathering up of our spirit for the new day, in the flush of our awakening from the darkness and the mystery of faint and inactive dreaming, in the resurrection from our daily grave, in the first tremulous sensation of the beauty of our being, in the most glorious perception of the lightning of our life; there, indeed, our expatiation of spirit, when it meets the pulse of outward sound and joy, the voice of bird and breeze and billow, does demand some power of liberty, some space for its going forth into the morning, some freedom of intercourse with the lovely and limitless energy of creature and creation.

If anything, despite the place being full of nothing but rocks, there is a certain sense of majesty of nature. Here, it really sinks in how tiny and insignificant my existence is. Back in my old life, I saw a TV show about unexplored regions and stuff. To be honest, that kind of thing never inspired me. In the end, all that beautiful scenery on the TV screen just seemed like some far-off, irrelevant world to me. Far from inspiration, all I felt was apathy. I don't even know why I was watching that show in the first place. But now, I'm actually standing here. This is the world I live in. It's not irrelevant at all. And I certainly can't be apathetic about it. Back when I was a human, I don't think just being somewhere had ever moved me emotionally, no matter where it was. And I never would have experienced this feeling if I just stayed holed up in the nest I called home before, I think.

In a valley shaded with rhododendrons, close to the snow line, where a stream milky with meltwater splashed and where doves and linnets flew among the immense pines, lay a cave, half, hidden by the crag above and the stiff heavy leaves that clustered below. The woods were full of sound: the stream between the rocks, the wind among the needles of the pine branches, the chitter of insects and the cries of small arboreal mammals, as well as the birdsong; and from time to time a stronger gust of wind would make one of the branches of a cedar or a fir move against another and groan like a cello. It was a place of brilliant sunlight, never undappled. Shafts of lemon-gold brilliance lanced down to the forest floor between bars and pools of brown-green shade; and the light was never still, never constant, because drifting mist would often float among the treetops, filtering all the sunlight to a pearly sheen and brushing every pine cone with moisture that glistened when the mist lifted. Sometimes the wetness in the clouds condensed into tiny drops half mist and half rain, which floated downward rather than fell, making a soft rustling patter among the millions of needles. There was a narrow path beside the stream, which led from a village-little more than a cluster of herdsmen's dwellings - at the foot of the valley to a half-ruined shrine near the glacier at its head, a place where faded silken flags streamed out in the Perpetual winds from the high mountains, and offerings of barley cakes and dried tea were placed by pious villagers. An odd effect of the light, the ice, and the vapor enveloped the head of the valley in perpetual rainbows.

What grubworms women are to crawl on their bellies through colorless marriages! Marriage was created not to be a background but to need one. Mine is going to be outstanding. It can't, shan't be the setting--it's going to be the performance, the live, lovely, glamourous performance, and the world shall be the scenery. I refuse to dedicate my life to posterity. Surely one owes as much to the current generation as to one's unwanted children. What a fate--to grow rotund and unseemly, to lose my self-love, to think in terms of milk, oatmeal, nurse, diapers…. Dear dream children, how much more beautiful you are, dazzling little creatures who flutter (all dream children must flutter) on golden, golden wings-- --

When she slipped outside, she paused for a moment, captured by the magic of snow gliding gently down, the lights from the house shining off each crystal. It painted the world in shades of blues and silvers in a way that never failed to take her breath away.

The lawn gently sloped to a winding stream, so clear as perfectly to reflect the beautiful scenery of heaven, now glowing with the gold and purple of the setting sun; from the opposite bank of the stream rose a stupendous mountain, diversified with little verdant hills and dales, and skirted with a wild shrubbery, the blossoms of which perfumed the air with the most balmy fragrance. Lord Mortimer prevailed upon Amanda to sit down upon a rustic bench, beneath the spreading branches of an oak, enwreathed with ivy; here they had not sat long ere the silence which reigned around was suddenly interrupted by strains, at once low, solemn and melodious, that seemed to creep along the water, till they had reached the place where they sat; and then, as if a Naiad of the stream had left her rushy couch to do them homage, they swelled by degrees into full melody, which the mountain echoes alternately revived and heightened. It appeared like enchantment to Amanda, and her eyes, turned to lord Mortimer, seemed to say it was to his magic it was owing.

The pilgrimage of Italy, which I now accomplished, had long been the object of my curious devotion. The passage of Mount Cenis, the regular streets of Turin, the Gothic cathedral of Milan, the scenery of the Boromean Islands, the marble palaces of Genoa, the beauties of Florence, the wonders of Rome, the curiosities of Naples, the galleries of Bologna, the singular aspect of Venice, the amphitheatre of Verona, and the Palladian architecture of Vicenza, are still present to my imagination. I read the Tuscan writers on the banks of the Arno; but my conversation was with the dead rather than the living, and the whole college of Cardinals was of less value in my eyes than the transfiguration of Raphael, the Apollo of the Vatican, or the massy greatness of the Coliseum. It was at Rome, on the fifteenth of October, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while the barefooted fryars were singing Vespers in the temple of Jupiter, that the idea of writing the decline and fall of the City first started to my mind. After Rome has kindled and satisfied the enthusiasm of the Classic pilgrim, his curiosity for all meaner objects insensibly subsides.

After the hardy baldness of the Norfolk landscape, which Julia appreciated had its own raw beauty, the Cote d'Azur offered spectacular, colorful intricacy. It was rather like comparing a rough diamond to an exquisitely fashioned and polished sapphire, yet they both had their own unique charms.

shibui (Japanese) Beauty of aging. [adjective] Shibui (shin-BOO-ee), like wabi, sabi, and aware, connotes a certain kind of beauty. Like sabi, and unlike aware, shibui refers to a kind of beauty that only time can reveal. One of the reasons language has such immense emotional power is the way people use symbols to link together several sensory sym-bols to make an emotionally evocative image. Shibui can be used to describe the taste of a certain kind of tea, scenery of a gray, brown, or moss-green color, or the impression a person gets from looking at the face of a certain kind of older person.

The desert at night was black and a strange madder-tinted silver; the sky was black, and the great contorted cliffs, and the vast expanses of sand that stretched out in all directions. But the red moon cast a pale crimson-tinged luminescence over everything, and far above the stars were glittering points of silver.

The awfulness of sudden death and the glory of heaven stunned me! The thing that had been mystery at twilight, lay clear, pure, open in the rosy hue of dawn. Out of the gates of the morning poured a light which glorified the palaces and pyramids, purged and purified the afternoon's inscrutable clefts, swept away the shadows of the mesas, and bathed that broad, deep world of mighty mountains, stately spars of rock, sculptured cathedrals and alabaster terraces in an artist's dream of color. A pearl from heaven had burst, flinging its heart of fire into this chasm. A stream of opal flowed out of the sun, to touch each peak, mesa, dome, parapet, temple and tower, cliff and cleft into the new-born life of another day. I sat there for a long time and knew that every second the scene changed, yet I could not tell how. I knew I sat high over a hole of broken, splintered, barren mountains; I knew I could see a hundred miles of the length of it, and eighteen miles of the width of it, and a mile of the depth of it, and the shafts and rays of rose light on a million glancing, many-hued surfaces at once; but that knowledge was no help to me. I repeated a lot of meaningless superlatives to myself, and I found words inadequate and superfluous. The spectacle was too elusive and too great. It was life and death, heaven and hell.

He straightened up, pointed at me, and said to my teacher: “Can you ask that student to leave his seat? His clothes are really too shabby.” I was a weak student and had to obey the teacher’s orders. I can’t fight, I can only stand up silently and let the well-dresses students create a beautiful scenery. At that moment I felt my face hot. But I was not angry, and neither did I pity myself, nor did I lament at my parents for not dressing me more properly. In fact, they did their best for me to get a good education. Looking at the adjusting the camera scene, I clenched my fists in my heart and swore to myself: One day, you will become the richest person in the world!

I can recall every part of the scenery from that day just fine but I feel as if I am missing the most important part. With no face to attach to the figure of importance in that memory, Naoko, the only thing that resonates to me with utmost clarity was the one question she posed to me. "Just answer me this one thing Toru, why is poopies so tasty?

We must be in the heart of Diyu." "The heart of Diyu is a garden?" Mulan spoke up. As far as she could see were flowers and trees, all so lush and beautiful Mulan could almost forget she was in the Underworld. Tall grass tickled her waist as she stepped up to a tangerine tree. Behind it was a tinkling brook, teeming with white-and-red-spotted carp.

It was a place of brilliant sunlight, never undappled. Shafts of lemon-gold brilliance lanced down to the forest floor between bars and pools of brown-green shade; and the light was never still, never constant, because drifting mist would often float among the treetops, filtering all the sunlight to a pearly sheen and brushing every pine cone with moisture that glistened when the mist lifted. Sometimes the wetness in the clouds condensed into tiny drops half mist and half rain, which floated downward rather than fell, making a soft rustling patter among the millions of needles. There was a narrow path beside the stream, which led from a village-little more than a cluster of herdsmen's dwellings - at the foot of the valley to a half-ruined shrine near the glacier at its head, a place where faded silken flags streamed out in the Perpetual winds from the high mountains, and offerings of barley cakes and dried tea were placed by pious villagers. An odd effect of the light, the ice, and the vapor enveloped the head of the valley in perpetual rainbows.

Taking pictures is not only about the background, the colorful scenery or the beautiful era but its all about the person who is hidden in that picture with deep feelings of happiness or sorrows. Don't only rely on physical outlook inspite of it go deep down in every single pixel because a picture can show you a lot about the hidden life story of that particular personality.

Each piece of the set was on a winch and pulley, bag-dropped, counterbalanced by nests of fifty-pound bags of sand. The setup was called a "Fairbanks," for the reason that when a stagehand so wanted, he could stand upon a knot on the rope, untie as few or as many bags of sand as he wanted, and ride nearly to the rafters like Zorro as the scenery lowered. There was no particular reason to ride that way, but because Carter allowed it, the team of men did so all night long, trading places at the top, jumping onto the ropes and riding back down later. With the mighty Egyptian set descending in its many pieces, the audience was deprived of a behind-the-scenes tableau of beauty: Carter's team swiftly riding ropes up to the catwalk and down to the stage again, simply because they could.

So you should accept knowledge as if you were hearing something you already knew. But this does not mean to receive various pieces of information merely as an echo of your own opinions. It means that you should not be surprised at whatever you see or hear. If you receive things just as an echo of yourself, you do not really see them, you do not fully accept them as they are. So when we say, “Rozan is famous for its misty, rainy days,” it does not mean to appreciate this sight by recollecting some scenery we have seen before: “It is not so wonderful. I have seen that sight before.” Or “I have painted much more beautiful paintings! Rozan is nothing!” This is not our way. If you are ready to accept things as they are, you will receive them as old friends, even though you appreciate them with new feeling.

It is very true,” said Marianne, “that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning.

It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning.

Her pretty name of Adina seemed to me to have somehow a mystic fitness to her personality. Behind a cold shyness, there seemed to lurk a tremulous promise to be franker when she knew you better. Adina is a strange child; she is fanciful without being capricious. She was stout and fresh-coloured, she laughed and talked rather loud, and generally, in galleries and temples, caused a good many stiff British necks to turn round. She had a mania for excursions, and at Frascati and Tivoli she inflicted her good-humoured ponderosity on diminutive donkeys with a relish which seemed to prove that a passion for scenery, like all our passions, is capable of making the best of us pitiless. Adina may not have the shoulders of the Venus of Milo...but I hope it will take more than a bauble like this to make her stoop. Adina espied the first violet of the year glimmering at the root of a cypress. She made haste to rise and gather it, and then wandered further, in the hope of giving it a few companions. Scrope sat and watched her as she moved slowly away, trailing her long shadow on the grass and drooping her head from side to side in her charming quest. It was not, I know, that he felt no impulse to join her; but that he was in love, for the moment, with looking at her from where he sat. Her search carried her some distance and at last she passed out of sight behind a bend in the villa wall. I don't pretend to be sure that I was particularly struck, from this time forward, with something strange in our quiet Adina. She had always seemed to me vaguely, innocently strange; it was part of her charm that in the daily noiseless movement of her life a mystic undertone seemed to murmur "You don't half know me! Perhaps we three prosaic mortals were not quite worthy to know her: yet I believe that if a practised man of the world had whispered to me, one day, over his wine, after Miss Waddington had rustled away from the table, that there was a young lady who, sooner or later, would treat her friends to a first class surprise, I should have laid my finger on his sleeve and told him with a smile that he phrased my own thought. .."That beautiful girl," I said, "seems to me agitated and preoccupied." "That beautiful girl is a puzzle. I don't know what's the matter with her; it's all very painful; she's a very strange creature. I never dreamed there was an obstacle to our happiness--to our union. She has never protested and promised; it's not her way, nor her nature; she is always humble, passive, gentle; but always extremely grateful for every sign of tenderness. Till within three or four days ago, she seemed to me more so than ever; her habitual gentleness took the form of a sort of shrinking, almost suffering, deprecation of my attentions, my petits soins, my lovers nonsense. It was as if they oppressed and mortified her--and she would have liked me to bear more lightly. I did not see directly that it was not the excess of my devotion, but my devotion itself--the very fact of my love and her engagement that pained her. When I did it was a blow in the face. I don't know what under heaven I've done! Women are fathomless creatures. And yet Adina is not capricious, in the common sense... .So these are peines d'amour?" he went on, after brooding a moment. "I didn't know how fiercely I was in love!" Scrope stood staring at her as she thrust out the crumpled note: that she meant that Adina--that Adina had left us in the night--was too large a horror for his unprepared sense...."Good-bye to everything! Think me crazy if you will. I could never explain. Only forget me and believe that I am happy, happy, happy! Adina Beati."... Love is said to be par excellence the egotistical passion; if so Adina was far gone. "I can't promise to forget you," I said; "you and my friend here deserve to be remembered!

It will interest you, as a phenomenon. You see, the fihn studio of today is really the palace of the sixteenth century. There one sees what Shakespeare saw: the absolute power of the tyrant, the courtiers, the flatterers, the jesters, the cunningly atnbitious intriguers. 111ere are fantastically beautiful wo1ne11, there are incompetent favorites. There are great 1nen "vho are suddenly disgr aced. There is the nlost insane extravagance, and unexpected parsimony over a few pence. There is enormous splendor, "vhich is a sham; and also horrible squalor hidden behind the scenery. There are vast schemes, abandoned because of so1ne caprice. There are secrets which everybody knows and no one speaks of. There are even t\;vo or three honest advisers. 111ese are the court fools, ,;vho speak the deepest wisdotn in puns, lest they should be taken seriously. They gritnace, and tear their hair privately, and weep.

Instead of striving for a life that could somehow match the clean beauty of an image from Instagram or the blurry glory of a trailer for an orgiastically great concert that could never happen, imagine striving for a way to encounter the small details of everyday life as if they were unexpectedly delightful. Isn’t that how luxury is supposed to feel, after all? Luxury means being able to relax and savor the moment, knowing that it doesn’t get any better than this. Feeling that way doesn’t require money. It doesn’t require the perfect scenery. All that’s required is an ability to survey a landscape that is disheveled, that is off-kilter, that is slightly unattractive or unsettling, and say to yourself: This is exactly how it should be. This requires a big shift in perspective: Since your thoughts and feelings can’t simply be turned off, you have to train your thoughts and feelings to experience imperfections as acceptable or preferable—even divine.

What could any oyster want to climb a hill for? To climb a hill must necessarily be fatiguing and annoying exercise for an oyster. The most natural conclusion would be that the oysters climbed up there to look at the scenery. Yet when one comes to reflect upon the nature of an oyster, it seems plain that he does not care for scenery. An oyster has no taste for such things; he cares nothing for the beautiful. An oyster is of a retiring disposition, and not lively - not even cheerful above the average, and never enterprising.

ANOTHER TWILIGHT Allow the point of the Croccodrillo its hazy cypress trees in profile Like a rough sketch for the Isle of the Dead, as seen from yellow stucco, his Villa Igea where Lawrence finished "Sons and Lovers," wild thyme scenting olive-grove grass, crime scenery come back to more than once. Again you're mirrored in lake shadow, a white sail flaking on its turquoise wavelets, keep awake by traffic noise Along the Gardesana...and you know that this beauty's unbearable as before even if seen from its opposite shore.

Against a set of desolate scenery, amid spectral crags and livid mountains of ash, beneath the funereal daylight of slopes illuminated in blue, she personified the spirit of the witches' sabbat. Morbid and voluptuous, sometimes with extenuated grace and infinite lassitude, she seemed to carry the burden of a criminal beauty, a beauty charged with all the sins cf the multitude. She fell again and again upon her pliant legs, and as she outlined the symbolic gestures of her two beautiful dead arms she seemed to be towing them behind her. Then, the vertigo of the abyss took hold of her again, and like one possessed she stood on point, holding herself fully erect from top to toe, like a spike of flesh and shadows. Her arms, weighed down just a few moments earlier, became menacing, demoniac, and audacious. Twisting like a screw, she whirled around, like a winnowing-machine - no, like a great lily stirred by a storm-wind. Clownish and macabre, a nacreous gleam showed between her lips... oh, that cruel and sardonic smile, and the two deep pools of her terrible eyes! Ize Kranile!

Mr. Stelling was very far from being led astray by enthusiasm, either religious or intellectual; on the other hand, he had no secret belief that everything was humbug. He thought religion was a very excellent thing, and Aristotle a great authority, and deaneries and prebends useful institutions, and Great Britain the providential bulwark of Protestantism, and faith in the unseen a great support to afflicted minds; he believed in all these things, as a Swiss hotel-keeper believes in the beauty of the scenery around him, and in the pleasure it gives to artistic visitors.

The wonder of life is in presence, it’s not in the scenery that happens to be showing up. That’s why you can be looking at the Grand Canyon and feel miserable, or you can be looking at trash blowing down the street and feel ecstasy. The wonder, the ecstasy, the joy, the beauty is in the quality of the looking. It’s in the presence. If you’re looking at the Grand Canyon and thinking that you’ve wasted your whole life, you’ll probably feel miserable. If you’re looking at trash in the gutter and you’re totally present and open and not caught up in thinking, you’ll feel wonderfully alive.

It is in the face of all this visual chaos, so opposed to order and simplicity, that I suddenly, perhaps a little guiltily, recall my vow to simplify my life. When I made that promise I had in mind the image of the ancient Greek subsisting on a fragment of pungent cheese, coarse bread, a handful of sun-warmed olives, a little watered wine; a man who discussed the Good, the True, the Beautiful with grave delight, and piped clear music in a sylvan glade. But I feel the absence of hills clothed in myrtle and thyme; of the Great Mother, Homer's wine-dark sea. Good resolutions, it seems, require good scenery.

Many people approach Tolstoy with mixed feelings. They love the artist in him and are intensely bored by the preacher; but at the same time it is rather difficult to separate Tolstoy the preacher from Tolstoy the artist—it is the same deep slow voice, the same robust shoulder pushing up a cloud of visions or a load of ideas. What one would like to do, would be to kick the glorified soapbox from under his sandalled feet and then lock him up in a stone house on a desert island with gallons of ink and reams of paper—far away from the things, ethical and pedagogical, that diverted his attention from observing the way the dark hair curled above Anna's white neck. But the thing cannot be done : Tolstoy is homogeneous, is one, and the struggle which, especially in the later years, went on between the man who gloated over the beauty of black earth, white flesh, blue snow, green fields, purple thunderclouds, and the man who maintained that fiction is sinful and art immoral—this struggle was still confined within the same man. Whether painting or preaching, Tolstoy was striving, in spite of all obstacles, to get at the truth. As the author of Anna Karenin, he used one method of discovering truth; in his sermons, he used another; but somehow, no matter how subtle his art was and no matter how dull some of his other attitudes were, truth which he was ponderously groping for or magically finding just around the corner, was always the same truth — this truth was he and this he was an art. What troubles one, is merely that he did not always recognize his own self when confronted with truth. I like the story of his picking up a book one dreary day in his old age, many years after he had stopped writing novels, and starting to read in the middle, and getting interested and very much pleased, and then looking at the title—and seeing: Anna Karenin by Leo Tolstoy. What obsessed Tolstoy, what obscured his genius, what now distresses the good reader, was that, somehow, the process of seeking the Truth seemed more important to him than the easy, vivid, brilliant discovery of the illusion of truth through the medium of his artistic genius. Old Russian Truth was never a comfortable companion; it had a violent temper and a heavy tread. It was not simply truth, not merely everyday pravda but immortal istina—not truth but the inner light of truth. When Tolstoy did happen to find it in himself, in the splendor of his creative imagination, then, almost unconsciously, he was on the right path. What does his tussle with the ruling Greek-Catholic Church matter, what importance do his ethical opinions have, in the light of this or that imaginative passage in any of his novels? Essential truth, istina, is one of the few words in the Russian language that cannot be rhymed. It has no verbal mate, no verbal associations, it stands alone and aloof, with only a vague suggestion of the root "to stand" in the dark brilliancy of its immemorial rock. Most Russian writers have been tremendously interested in Truth's exact whereabouts and essential properties. To Pushkin it was of marble under a noble sun ; Dostoevski, a much inferior artist, saw it as a thing of blood and tears and hysterical and topical politics and sweat; and Chekhov kept a quizzical eye upon it, while seemingly engrossed in the hazy scenery all around. Tolstoy marched straight at it, head bent and fists clenched, and found the place where the cross had once stood, or found—the image of his own self.

He went on thus to call over names celebrated in Scottish song, and most of which had recently received a romantic interest from his own pen. In fact, I saw a great part of the border country spread out before me, and could trace the scenes of those poems and romances which had, in a manner, bewitched the world. I gazed about me for a time with mute surprise, I may almost say with disappointment. I beheld a mere succession of gray waving hills, line beyond line, as far as my eye could reach; monotonous in their aspect, and so destitute of trees, that one could almost see a stout fly walking along their profile; and the far-famed Tweed appeared a naked stream, flowing between bare hills, without a tree or thicket on its banks; and yet, such had been the magic web of poetry and romance thrown over the whole, that it had a greater charm for me than the richest scenery I beheld in England. I could not help giving utterance to my thoughts. Scott hummed for a moment to himself, and looked grave; he had no idea of having his muse complimented at the expense of his native hills. "It may be partiality," said he, at length; "but to my eye, these gray hills and all this wild border country have beauties peculiar to themselves. I like the very nakedness of the land; it has something bold, and stern, and solitary about it. When I have been for some time in the rich scenery about Edinburgh, which is like ornamented garden land, I begin to wish myself back again among my own honest gray hills; and if I did not see the heather at least once a year, I think I should die!

I visited various parts of my own country; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, for on no country had the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, her oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure; her broad, deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine;—no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery.

I walked slowly on, without envying my companions on horseback: for I could sit down upon an inviting spot, climb to the edge of a precipice, or trace a torrent by its sound. I descended at length into the Rheinthal, or Valley of the Rhine; the mountains of Tyrol, which yielded neither in height or in cragginess to those of Appenzel, rising before me. And here I found a remarkable difference: for although the ascending and descending was a work of some labor; yet the variety of the scenes had given me spirits, and I was not sensible of the least fatigue. But in the plain, notwithstanding the scenery was still beautiful and picturesque, I saw at once the whole way stretching before me, and had no room for fresh expectations: I was not therefore displeased when I arrived at Oberried, after a walk of about twelve miles, my coat flung upon my shoulder like a peripatetic by profession. -William Coxe

Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth, In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops, In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds and the storms,) Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women, The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail'd, And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages, And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent—lo, then and there, Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail, And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

The inhabitants of cities suppose that the country landscape is pleasant only half the year. I please myself with the graces of the winter scenery, and believe that we are as much touched by it as by the genial influences of summer. To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again. The heavens change every moment, and reflect their glory or gloom on the plains beneath. The state of the crop in the surrounding farms alters the expression of the earth from week to week. The succession of native plants in the pastures and roadsides, which makes the silent clock by which time tells the summer hours, will make even the divisions of the day sensible to a keen observer. The tribes of birds and insects, like the plants punctual to their time, follow each other, and the year has room for all.

Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came—oh, my beautiful love!—and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! My love!

Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came--oh, my beautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be.

Alice's Cutie Code TM Version 2.1 - Colour Expansion Pack (aka Because this stuff won’t stop being confusing and my friends are mean edition) From Red to Green, with all the colours in between (wait, okay, that rhymes, but green to red makes more sense. Dang.) From Green to Red, with all the colours in between Friend Sampling Group: Fennie, Casey, Logan, Aisha and Jocelyn Green  Friends’ Reaction: Induces a minimum amount of warm and fuzzies. If you don’t say “aw”, you’re “dead inside”  My Reaction: Sort of agree with friends minus the “dead inside” but because that’s a really awful thing to say. Puppies are a good example. So is Walter Bishop. Green-Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: A noticeable step up from Green warm and fuzzies. Transitioning from cute to slightly attractive. Acceptable crush material. “Kissing.”  My Reaction: A good dance song. Inspirational nature photos. Stuff that makes me laugh. Pairing: Madison and Allen from splash Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: Something that makes you super happy but you don’t know why. “Really pretty, but not too pretty.” Acceptable dating material. People you’d want to “bang on sight.”  My Reaction: Love songs for sure! Cookies for some reason or a really good meal. Makes me feel like it’s possible to hold sunshine, I think. Character: Maxon from the selection series. Music: Carly Rae Jepsen Yellow-Orange  Friends’ Reaction: (When asked for non-sexual examples, no one had an answer. From an objective perspective, *pushes up glasses* this is the breaking point. Answers definitely skew toward romantic or sexual after this.)  My Reaction: Something that really gets me in my feels. Also art – oil paintings of landscapes in particular. (What is with me and scenery? Maybe I should take an art class) Character: Dean Winchester. Model: Liu Wren. Orange  Friends’ Reaction: “So pretty it makes you jealous. Or gay.”  “Definitely agree about the gay part. No homo, though. There’s just some really hot dudes out there.”(Feenie’s side-eye was so intense while the others were answering this part LOLOLOLOLOL.) A really good first date with someone you’d want to see again.  My Reaction: People I would consider very beautiful. A near-perfect season finale. I’ve also cried at this level, which was interesting. o Possible tie-in to romantic feels? Not sure yet. Orange-Red  Friends’ Reaction: “When lust and love collide.” “That Japanese saying ‘koi no yokan.’ It’s kind of like love at first sight but not really. You meet someone and you know you two have a future, like someday you’ll fall in love. Just not right now.” (<-- I like this answer best, yes.) “If I really, really like a girl and I’m interested in her as a person, guess. I’d be cool if she liked the same games as me so we could play together.”  My Reaction: Something that gives me chills or has that time-stopping factor. Lots of staring. An extremely well-decorated room. Singers who have really good voices and can hit and hold superb high notes, like Whitney Houston. Model: Jasmine Tooke. Paring: Abbie and Ichabod from Sleepy Hollow o Romantic thoughts? Someday my prince (or princess, because who am I kidding?) will come? Red (aka the most controversial code)  Friends’ Reaction: “Panty-dropping levels” (<-- wtf Casey???).  “Naked girls.” ”Ryan. And ripped dudes who like to cook topless.”  “K-pop and anime girls.” (<-- Dear. God. The whole table went silent after he said that. Jocelyn was SO UNCOMFORTABLE but tried to hide it OMG it was bad. Fennie literally tried to slap some sense into him.)  My Reaction: Uncontrollable staring. Urge to touch is strong, which I must fight because not everyone is cool with that. There may even be slack-jawed drooling involved. I think that’s what would happen. I’ve never seen or experienced anything that I would give Red to.

POEM – MY AMAZING TRAVELS [My composition in my book Travel Memoirs with Pictures] My very first trip I still cannot believe Was planned and executed with such great ease. My father, an Inspector of Schools, was such a strict man, He gave in to my wishes when I told him of the plan. I got my first long vacation while working as a banker One of my co-workers wanted a travelling partner. She visited my father and discussed the matter Arrangements were made without any flutter. We travelled to New York, Toronto, London, and Germany, In each of those places, there was somebody, To guide and protect us and to take us wonderful places, It was a dream come true at our young ages. We even visited Holland, which was across the Border. To drive across from Germany was quite in order. Memories of great times continue to linger, I thank God for an understanding father. That trip in 1968 was the beginning of much more, I visited many countries afterward I am still in awe. Barbados, Tobago, St. Maarten, and Buffalo, Cirencester in the United Kingdom, Miami, and Orlando. I was accompanied by my husband on many trips. Sisters, nieces, children, grandchildren, and friends, travelled with me a bit. Puerto Rico, Los Angeles, New York, and Hialeah, Curacao, Caracas, Margarita, Virginia, and Anguilla. We sailed aboard the Creole Queen On the Mississippi in New Orleans We traversed the Rockies in Colorado And walked the streets in Cozumel, Mexico. We were thrilled to visit the Vatican in Rome, The Trevi Fountain and the Colosseum. To explore the countryside in Florence, And to sail on a Gondola in Venice. My fridge is decorated with magnets Souvenirs of all my visits London, Madrid, Bahamas, Coco Cay, Barcelona. And the Leaning Tower of Pisa How can I forget the Spanish Steps in Rome? Stratford upon Avon, where Shakespeare was born. CN Tower in Toronto so very high I thought the elevator would take me to the sky. Then there was El Poble and Toledo Noted for Spanish Gold We travelled on the Euro star. The scenery was beautiful to behold! I must not omit Cartagena in Columbia, Anaheim, Las Vegas, and Catalina, Key West, Tampa, Fort Lauderdale, and Pembroke Pines, Places I love to lime. Of course, I would like to make special mention, Of two exciting cruises with Royal Caribbean. Majesty of the Seas and Liberty of the Seas Two ships which grace the Seas. Last but not least and best of all We visited Paris in the fall. Cologne, Dusseldorf, and Berlin Amazing places, which made my head, spin. Copyright@BrendaMohammed

In 1799, the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge goes to Germany on a winter walking trip and writes home to his wife about the opposite sense: of winter as a mysterious magnetic season that the wanderer is expelled into for his own good, for the purification and improvement of his soul. “What sublime scenery I have beheld!” Coleridge’s’ words are one of those rare passages of prose that truly mark the arrival of an epoch. It would be impossible to find anything like it in European literature only twenty-five years before… This kind of love of the winter scene is not of the force outside pressing in on the window, bringing family together. Instead it is for the ice-spirit pulling us out. This winter window is wrenched open by the level of the sublime. The new idea (of winter’s beauty) is associated with Edmund Burke’s great essay on the sublime and beautiful from the middle of the eighteenth century. Burke’s was one of the three or four most powerful ideas in the history of thought, because he wrenched aesthetics away from the insipid idea of beauty (physical, manicured) towards recognition of the full span of human sympathy. Oceans and thunderstorms, precipices and abysses, towering volcanoes and, above all, snow-capped mountains- they rival and outdo the heritage of classical beauty exactly because they frighten us; they fill us with fear, with awe, with a sense of the inestimable mystery of the world.

Nor is it only as a sign of greater gentleness or refinement of mind, but as a proof of the best possible direction of this refinement, that the tendency of the Gothic to the expression of vegetative life is to be admired. That sentence of Genesis, 'I have given thee every green herb for meat,' like all the rest of the book, has a profound symbolical as well as literal meaning. It is not merely the nourishment of the body, but the food of the soul, that is intended. The green herb is, of all nature, that which is most essential to the healthy spiritual life of man. Most of us do not need fine scenery; the precipice and the mountain peak are not intended to be seen by all men, — perhaps their power is greatest. over those who are unaccustomed to them. But trees and fields and flowers were made for all, and are necessary for all. God has connected the labour which is essential to the bodily sustenance with the pleasures which are healthiest for the heart; and while He made the ground stubborn, He made its herbage fragrant, and its blossoms fair. The proudest architecture that man can build has no higher honour than to bear the image and recall the memory of that grass of the field which is, at once, the type and the support of his existence; the goodly building is then most glorious when it is sculptured into the likeness of the leaves of Paradise; and the great Gothic spirit, as we showed it to be noble in its disquietude, is also noble in its hold of nature; it is, indeed, like the dove of Noah, in that she found no rest upon the face of the waters, — but like her in this also, 'Lo, in her mouth was an olive branch, plucked off.

True understanding is to see the events of life in this way: “You are here for my benefit, though rumor paints you otherwise.” And everything is turned to one’s advantage when he greets a situation like this: You are the very thing I was looking for. Truly whatever arises in life is the right material to bring about your growth and the growth of those around you. This, in a word, is art—and this art called “life” is a practice suitable to both men and gods. Everything contains some special purpose and a hidden blessing; what then could be strange or arduous when all of life is here to greet you like an old and faithful friend? I had a dream many years ago that sums up this thought in a different way, one that has become a sustaining metaphor for me. I am on a train going home to God. (Bear with me!) It’s a long journey, and everything that happens in my life is scenery along the way. Some of it is beautiful; I want to linger over it awhile, perhaps hold on to it or even try to take it with me. Other parts of the journey are spent grinding through a barren, ugly countryside. Either way the train moves on. And pain comes whenever I cling to the scenery, beautiful or ugly, rather than accept that all the scenery is grist for the mill, containing, as Marcus Aurelius counseled us, some hidden purpose and a hidden blessing. My family, of course, is on board with me. Beyond our families, we choose who is on the train with us, who we share our journey with. The people we invite on the train are those with whom we are prepared to be vulnerable and real, with whom there is no room for masks and games. They strengthen us when we falter and remind us of the journey’s purpose when we become distracted by the scenery. And we do the same for them. Never let life’s Iagos—flatterers, dissemblers—onto your train. We always get warnings from our heart and our intuition when they appear, but we are often too busy to notice. When you realize they’ve made it on board, make sure you usher them off the train; and as soon as you can, forgive them and forget them. There is nothing more draining than holding grudges.

My intellectual depravity kept me from completely enjoying what surrounded me. I am sure that, in what little I might have tried to say, I was going to ridicule, diminish and materialize everything. In that strange and almost indescribable scenery, so superior to what I was normally able to see, I imagined—obviously an effect of my blind rudeness—that I came across things that faintly resembled the most beautiful things I had contemplated on the sublunary globe. I believed I saw a flower: I beheld something like large woods whose trees were only flowers; nothing but petals, corollas and calyces, fragrant and cradled by a breeze that itself was plainly perfumed with floral breaths—and just as sweet. All the nuances of the rose adorned these gigantic fluttering bouquets. Some of the roses, brown-lipped roses, were so unbelievably arousing and voluptuous—if I can speak like this—that I felt like they rejuvenated my soul. A flower often stood alone, as big as a tree—and with such a divine form, such an embracing scent—that’s the only word that translates, a little ridiculously, what I felt—that the air wafting around it would kill a normal human being with excessive pleasure. Because I was disembodied, I could breath it in with no harm—and even blend myself, overcome by joy, with its intoxicating, incarnadine cloud. Large, flashy birds flew among the heights of the flower-trees where they sometimes alit like snuggling light. Their slow-noted songs evoked a magical past more enticing even than this splendid present. The sky was pink and gold. Pink fountains flowed there, flashing with gold—whose music could only be compared to harps that had —absurdly—crystal strings—and to go further in absurdity: living crystal. All this nature seemed enshrouded—and at the same time penetrated—with a tender cheerfulness. I floated in the pink perfumes of the woods, in the soothing radiance of the glades, in all that gentleness and beauty that felt like an infinite bounty manifested by transportive images and by an immaterial well being… And even though I desperately did not want to leave this atmosphere of delights—which I can give no real idea of—I felt unbalanced, brutal and out of place among the ethereal sweetness. A charitable, sorrowful force (I felt it) chased me away almost in spite of itself in order to cut me off from these joys I was unworthy of.

Land and Sea The brilliant colors are the first thing that strike a visitor to the Greek Isles. From the stunning azure waters and blindingly white houses to the deep green-black of cypresses and the sky-blue domes of a thousand churches, saturated hues dominate the landscape. A strong, constant sun brings out all of nature’s colors with great intensity. Basking in sunshine, the Greek Isles enjoy a year-round temperate climate. Lemons grow to the size of grapefruits and grapes hang in heavy clusters from the vines of arbors that shade tables outside the tavernas. The silver leaves of olive trees shiver in the least sea breezes. The Greek Isles boast some of the most spectacular and diverse geography on Earth. From natural hot springs to arcs of soft-sand beaches and secret valleys, the scenery is characterized by dramatic beauty. Volcanic formations send craggy cliffsides plummeting to the sea, cause lone rock formations to emerge from blue waters, and carve beaches of black pebbles. In the Valley of the Butterflies on Rhodes, thousands of radiant winged creatures blanket the sky in summer. Crete’s Samaria Gorge is the longest in Europe, a magnificent natural wonder rife with local flora and fauna. Corfu bursts with lush greenery and wildflowers, nurtured by heavy rainfall and a sultry sun. The mountain ranges, gorges, and riverbeds on Andros recall the mainland more than the islands. Both golden beaches and rocky countrysides make Mykonos distinctive. Around Mount Olympus, in central Cyprus, timeless villages emerge from the morning mist of craggy peaks and scrub vegetation. On Evia and Ikaria, natural hot springs draw those seeking the therapeutic power of healing waters. Caves abound in the Greek Isles; there are some three thousand on Crete alone. The Minoans gathered to worship their gods in the shallow caves that pepper the remotest hilltops and mountain ranges. A cave near the town of Amnissos, a shrine to Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth, once revealed a treasure trove of small idols dedicated to her. Some caves were later transformed into monasteries. On the islands of Halki and Cyprus, wall paintings on the interiors of such natural monasteries survive from the Middle Ages. Above ground, trees and other flora abound on the islands in a stunning variety. ON Crete, a veritable forest of palm trees shades the beaches at Vai and Preveli, while the high, desolate plateaus of the interior gleam in the sunlight. Forest meets sea on the island of Poros, and on Thasos, many species of pine coexist. Cedars, cypress, oak, and chestnut trees blanket the mountainous interiors of Crete, Cyprus, and other large islands. Rhodes overflows with wildflowers during the summer months. Even a single island can be home to disparate natural wonders. Amorgos’ steep, rocky coastline gives way to tranquil bays. The scenery of Crete--the largest of the Greek Isles--ranges from majestic mountains and barren plateaus to expansive coves, fertile valleys, and wooded thickets.

Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene, I hardly paid it any mind. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that eighteen years later I would recall it in such detail. I didn’t give a damn about the scenery that day. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the beautiful girl walking next to me. I was thinking about the two of us together, and then about myself again. It was the age, that time of life when every sight, every feeling, every thought came back, like a boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. Scenery was the last thing on my mind. Now, though, that meadow scene is the first thing that comes back to me. The smell of the grass, the faint chill of the wind, the line of the hills, the barking of a dog: these are the first things, and they come with absolute clarity. I feel as if I can reach out and trace them with a fingertip. And yet, as clear as the scene may be, no one is in it. No one. Naoko is not there, and neither am I. Where could we have disappeared to? How could such a thing have happened? Every “thing that seemed so important back then—Naoko, and the self I was then, and the world I had then: where could they have all gone? It’s true, I can’t even bring back Naoko’s face—not right away, at least. All I’m left holding is a background, sheer scenery, with no people up front. True, given time enough, I can bring back her face. I start joining images—her tiny, cold hand; her straight, black hair so smooth and cool to the touch; a soft, rounded earlobe and the microscopic mole just beneath it; the camel’s hair coat she wore in the winter; her habit of looking straight into your eyes when asking a question; the slight trembling that would come to her voice now and then (as if she were speaking on a windy hilltop) and suddenly her face is there, always in profile at first, because Naoko and I were always out walking together, side by side. Then she turns to me, and smiles, and tilts her head just a bit, and begins to speak, and she looks into my eyes as if trying to catch the image of a minnow that has darted across the pool of a limpid spring. I do need that time, though, for Naoko’s face to appear. And as the years have passed, the time has grown longer. The sad truth is that what I could recall in five seconds all too soon needed ten, then thirty, then a full minute—like shadows lengthening at dusk. Someday, I suppose, the shadows will be swallowed up in darkness. There is no way around it: my memory is growing ever more distant from the spot where Naoko used to stand—ever more distant from the spot where my old self used to stand. And nothing but scenery, that view of the meadow in October, returns again and again to me like a symbolic scene in a movie. Each time it appears, it delivers a kick to some part of my mind. “Wake up,” it says. “I’m still here. Wake up and think about it. Think about why I’m still here.” The kicking never hurts me. There’s no pain at all. Just a hollow sound that echoes with each kick. And even that is bound to fade one day. At the Hamburg airport, though, the kicks were longer and harder than usual. Which is why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I’m made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them.

His account of the approach to the monastery of the Grande Chartreuse high in the mountains of Savoy inspired generations of artists and students to head for the wild landscapes of the south: It is six miles to the top; the road runs winding up it, commonly not six feet broad; on one hand is the rock, with woods of pine trees hanging over head; on the other, a monstrous precipice, almost perpendicular, at the bottom of which rolls a torrent, that sometimes tumbling among the fragments of stone that have fallen from on high, and sometimes precipitating itself down vast descents with a noise like thunder, which is still made greater by the echo from the mountains on each side, concurs to form one of the most solemn, the most romantic, and the most astonishing scenes I ever beheld.17 This is a highly influential early usage of the word ‘romantic’ to describe mountain scenery. It is also a classic instance of what Edmund Burke classified as a ‘sublime’ as opposed to a ‘beautiful’ scene, the distinction being that the sublime creates a reaction of awe with an element of fear, in this case created by the raging torrent, the noise resembling thunder, the echo from the mountain walls. For Wordsworth and Jones, as for Gray and Walpole before them, the approach to the Grande Chartreuse was one of the most ‘astonishing’ scenes that they ever beheld. Astonishment – being struck dumb with awe – was the hallmark of the sublime.

The garden, which was exposed to the pure light of the Evemeria morning, had already begun to change in hue, due to the light intensity, before she could enjoy it through the window. For some reason, she couldn’t bear missing such scenery more than being thrown out of the social circle. Enduring the sadness and regret she couldn’t quite understand deep within her heart, Dia was terrified there was almost no space left to store said bitterness.

After a while, even the most beautiful scenery threatens to become moving wallpaper—background—but other times, it all seems to come together: the work, the play, all the places I’ve been, where I am now, a happy, stupid, wonderful confluence of events.

But they can hardly have missed the part of Olmsted’s document that teaches a stirring civics lesson: “It is the main duty of government, if it is not the sole duty of government, to provide means of protection for all its citizens in the pursuit of happiness against the obstacles, otherwise insurmountable, which the selfishness of individuals or combinations of individuals is liable to interpose to that pursuit.”1 As Olmsted sees it, Yosemite has the potential to close out the era in which the prize manifestations of nature’s beauty have been reserved for the wealthy.

No matter where you set your eyes, the scenery was flavorless, but at this moment in time, everything about it was beautiful. I had no need to perceive the world in an efficient way anymore, and no need to blame it for my predicament. I had the wherewithal to view everything for exactly what it was.

A sensitive and honest-minded man, if he’s concerned about evil and injustice in the world, will naturally begin his campaign against them by eliminating them at their nearest source: his own person. This task will take his entire life. Everything, for us, is in our concept of the world. To modify our concept of the world is to modify the world for us, or simply to modify the world, since it will never be, for us, anything but what it is for us. That inner justice we summon to write a fluent and beautiful page, that true reformation of enlivening our dead sensibility – these things are the truth, our truth, the only truth. Everything else in the world is scenery, picture frames for our feelings, book bindings for our thoughts.

I’d like to draw you, if you’d let me.” “Me? Why me? All this beautiful scenery, and you want to draw my big head?” Nate jokes. “As you said, I like to draw beautiful things, and you’re the most beautiful thing in this garden. To me at least.

To live means: to cry and shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to even experience horrible, frightening things . . . and to laugh. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, feeling nauseous, people singing, planes flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouth-watering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn . . .

...grand oaks, maples, and chestnuts muscle in on one another, flared in their autumn robes; a motley conflagration under the dazzling mid-October sun. We are in the middle of a beautiful nowhere, digging into sprawling hinterlands, into territories of wild earth. The rolling, winding roads away from Bangor took us through towns with names like Charleston, Dover-Foxcroft, Monson, and Shirley, all with their own quaint, beautifully cinematic set dressing. It was like each was curated from grange hall flea markets and movie sets rife with small-town Americana. Stoic stone war memorials. American flags. Whitewashed, chipping town hall buildings from other centuries. Church bell towers in the actual process of tolling, gonging, calling. To me, the sound was ominous in a remote sort of way, unnamable.

The air blowing in through the open window is surprisingly cool. Sam rolls down her own window, breathing in the fresh air tinged with the smell of warm cedar. Pulling some stray hairs across her forehead, she gazes happily at the beautiful scenery rushing past. These woods are different than the ones back home. The trees are bigger, and the forest appears denser. Instead of moss hanging off the branches, sweet-smelling pine needles cover the dry ground.

We could hear the howling of the screaming voices behind the walls, and she kept her eyes close, as I led her to the beautiful scenery at the top of the hilly estate. I stumbled back, frightened when I saw a hand clutch through the wall... it's bones poking out of the skin and the skin itself grayish and mutated. Dead...

The snowfall outside was a white wall of noiseless fury, the symmetry of the stars eclipsed by a cataract of quiet.

If you’re looking for a change of scenery, choose beautiful scenery.

The final build of the staircases was achieved in rehearsals. “I don’t think when we first created the stairs, we had any idea of how beautifully Steven would choreograph with them,” says Jones. “And that is the beauty of somebody like Steven, who’s able to infuse scenery with a soul and with movement in a way that is so special.” Part Two of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child opens with a dance that reflects the dark and dangerous

I bet you trees can talk.

In actual practice this could be illustrated with the example of being in a canoe or kayak with a double-bladed paddle. The canoe is carried forward by the flow of a river at exactly the right speed. On the banks to the left and right there is beautiful natural scenery and above is the wide-open sky. Our only task is to stay in the middle of the river so that the journey can continue on its own. This requires keeping an eye on deviating from the midst of the river. When the canoe moves closer to one of the two banks, gently putting one blade of the paddle into the water for a short moment suffices to return to the centre of the river. In this simile, the canoe represents mindfulness of the body and the river the continuous awareness of impermanence. The beautiful scenery on both sides of the river illustrates the different insights to be gained during satipaṭṭhāna meditation. The wide-open sky represents the open-minded and receptive attitude characteristic of this mode of cultivating mindfulness. The ocean as the final destination of the river corresponds to the realization of Nibbāna. One who cultivates the four satipaṭṭhānas inclines and slopes towards Nibbāna just as the river Ganges inclines and slopes towards the ocean (SN 47.51). It is in particular the cultivation of the seven awakening factors that makes our practice flow towards Nibbāna (SN 46.77; Anālayo 2003: 233).

The birds have soared up and gone, isolate white clouds wander relaxed through the sky. We never exhausted of staring at each other only the climbing can bring windy beauty breeze that takes your breath away. Mountains' different shapes have their unique stories. We belong to the hills, and it's our playground. The silence trees sway the kingdom creation that brings to your eyes as your feet and hands grip to hold for dear life as you climb. The way you move your body, the ache is worth the scenery, and the power you hold to jump to the top of the world to seek successfully made it your story happen with your heart. You have the control and the mountain top. You own your mind to survive to go on as you told the world it's a sight to behold- Martha Perez

To live means: to cry and shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to even experience hor-rible, frightening things... and to laugh. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, feeling nauseous, people sing-ing, planes flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouth-watering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn ... And next to all the movies that play on a loop inside me, sit the images of friends, lovers, the family, who were with me when I watched them

Hmm. Real life is different from math. Things in life don’t necessarily flow over the shortest possible route. For me, math is—how should I put it?—math is all too natural. It’s like beautiful scenery. It’s just there. There’s no need to exchange it with anything else. That’s why, when I’m doing math, I sometimes feel I’m turning transparent. And that can be scary.

I ended up in the back seat of a chicken truck’s cab heading through beautiful scenery and disastrous roads to my hotel. About an hour later, we stopped to sell a few hundred of the chickens to a butcher shop.

The air blowing in through the open window is surprisingly cool. Sam rolls down her own window, breathing in the fresh air tinged with the smell of warm cedar. Pulling some stray hairs across her forehead, she gazes happily at the beautiful scenery rushing past. These woods are different than the ones back home. The trees are bigger and the forest appears denser. Instead of moss hanging off the branches, sweet smelling pine needles cover the dry ground. Sighing,

Tourism Tourism is the largest segment of the Italian economy. Millions of Italians work in the tourist industry. They work in hotels and restaurants. They drive taxis and lead tour groups. Tourists flock to Italy for its gorgeous scenery, beautiful weather, and incredible art. Italy if the fifth most visited nation in the world, welcoming about forty million tourists each year. One major destination is the Italian Riviera, which draws visitors with its beautiful beaches, sunny days, and cool nights. Many tourists head to Rome to see its ancient ruins and magnificent art. Tuscany is also rich in art and appealing landscapes. Twenty million people travel to Venice every year to experience the charms of a city that has canals instead of roads.

I want to know I can pick up and go if I feel the need. If I’m feeling all done with what I’m doing, I want to be able to go do something else, somewhere else, soak in new scents, new scenery, new people, new challenges.” She smiled. She realized something else. “I miss the restlessness. The pull to head somewhere new, find something I’ve never seen, learn something I didn’t know.” “It’s comfortable, I would imagine,” he said. “And comforting. It’s what you know, what you understand. Makes you feel like you.” She nodded. “That’s exactly it.” It was a little overwhelming at times, how well he seemed to understand her, to get what she meant. But in the best possible way. “There’s one more part,” she said, finding the courage, knowing she needed to tell him the rest of it. “Of the all I want to have.” “Which is?” She lifted her head then, propped her chin on his chest, and looked into his beautiful blue eyes. “You.” The light that leaped into those eyes was almost startling in its fierceness. His hand stilled in her hair, his body seemed to vibrate a little, as if injected with a sudden shot of life. But he otherwise said nothing, didn’t move, didn’t roll her to her back and kiss her senseless. He just held her gaze and let her see everything her declaration made him feel. That emboldened her to go on, to give voice to the rest of it. “I want to go back to Cameroo, see everyone again, see if it feels the same, if it still calls to me like it did before.” She clung to his gaze. “Feel what it would be like to be there and be with you. Really with you.” She expected him to say something like he’d book her the next flight back, but instead he regarded her for a long moment, and she realized she was trembling by the time he spoke. “That’s a lot of all,” he said. She nodded, unable to say anything more. Then he surprised a gasp out of her by reaching for her and pulling her up on top of him, slowing rolling to his other side and tucking her under the shelter of his body. He slid his leg between hers, leveraged his weight on one forearm, and cupped her cheek in his free hand. He stared down so intently, so deeply into her eyes, she thought she might drown in all that deep, dark, bottomless blue. “Cooper,” she whispered, for once not having any idea what he was thinking. “Maybe there is a way to have it all,” he said, lowering his head to hers. “If you want me, Starfish, we’ll find that way.” “I do,” she said, the sudden prickle of tears surprising her, but it was such a huge rush finally to admit it, to tell him. To tell herself. “But--” “No buts,” he said, kissing the damp from the corner of one eye, then the other. “We’ll sort it out,” he said. “It’s what we do for the people we love.

I was never one for looking at beautiful scenery, and certainly not since 1933; it distracts from the more important and admittedly metropolitan business of keeping an eye out for the Gestapo, which, with my politics, is an ever-present dilemma.

Much has been said of the sunrise at sea; but it will not compare with the sunrise on shore. It lacks the accompaniments of the songs of birds, the awakening hum of humanity, and the glancing of the first beams upon trees, hills, spires, and housetops, to give it life and spirit. There is no scenery. But, although the actual rise of the sun at sea is not so beautiful, yet nothing will compare for melancholy and dreariness with the early breaking of day upon “Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste.

The beauty of the inlet was nearly that of Peru, and I wondered at all this exposition God had created, as though it were an invitation to an epic so grand it might match the scenery. The mountains themselves call us into greater stories, I thought.

In our ascent we were often among the clouds hovering about the mountain, and for a while would be enveloped in fog and mist, or even rain, until we mounted above them into clear sunlight again.

From Florida Muir set sail for California, arriving in San Francisco in 1868. He immediately set out on a six-week walk to Yosemite. Spellbound by Yosemite’s scenery—“every feature glowing, radiating beauty that pours into our flesh and bones like heat rays from fire”—Muir found

Fall is the season of beauty and delicious food. Be grateful for the change of scenery, and try observing it to get more book ideas.

Nature provides us with some of the most beautiful scenery that will inspire and make a person at peace with the world.

May 5th 2018 was one of the first nice spring days the beautiful State of Maine had seen since being captured by the long nights and cold days of winter. Ursula, my wife of nearly 60 years and I were driving north on the picturesque winding coastal route and had just enjoyed the pleasant company of Beth Leonard and Gary Lawless at their interesting book store “Gulf of Maine” in Brunswick. I loved most of the sights I had seen that morning but nothing prepared us for what we saw next as we drove across the Kennebec River on the Sagadahoc Bridge. Ursula questioned me about the most mysterious looking vessel we had ever seen. Of course she expected a definitive answer from me, since I am considered a walking encyclopedia of anything nautical by many. Although I had read about this new ship, its sudden appearance caught me off guard. “What kind of ship is that?” Ursula asked as she looked downstream, at the newest and most interesting stealth guided missile destroyer on the planet. Although my glance to the right was for only a second, I was totally awed by the sight and felt that my idea of what a ship should look like relegated me to the ashbin of history where I would join the dinosaurs and flying pterosaurs of yesteryear. Although I am not privileged to know all of the details of this class of ship, what I do know is that the USS Zumwalt (DDG 1000) first underwent sea trials in 2015. The USS Michael Monsoor (DDG-1001) delivered to the Navy in April 2018, was the second ship this class of guided missile destroyers and the USS Lyndon B. Johnson (DDG-1002) now under construction, will be the third and final Zumwalt-class destroyer built for the United States Navy. It was originally expected that the cost of this class would be spread across 32 ships but as reality set in and costs overran estimates, the number was reduced to 24, then to 7 and finally to 3… bringing the cost-per-ship in at a whopping $7.5 billion. These guided missile destroyers are primarily designed to be multi-mission stealth ships with a focus on naval gunfire to support land attacks. They are however also quite capable for use in surface and anti-aircraft warfare. The three ship’s propulsion is similar and comes from two Rolls-Royce gas turbines, similar to aircraft jet engines, and Curtiss-Wright electrical generators. The twin propellers are driven by powerful electric motors. Once across the bridge the landscape once again became familiar and yet different. Over 60 years had passed since I was here as a Maine Maritime Academy cadet but some things don’t change in Maine. The scenery is still beautiful and the people are friendly, as long as you don’t step on their toes. Yes, in many ways things are still the same and most likely will stay the same for years to come. As for me I like New England especially Maine but it gets just a little too cold in the winter!

He left school without even sending you a text message saying 'I hope you enjoy the beautiful scenery on your trip through Dumpslandia.

But even though it was scary and isolated, the scenery out the window was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was just stunning. I could see much more of the world than I was used to. It was like someone had opened the pages of a pop-up book, where the pop-up was our car, and everything else all around us was totally flat.

Here are to be seen all the varied colors which Bierstadt and Church endeavor to represent in their mountain scenery. A journey across and around them on foot and upon horseback will well repay the tourist or artist. The air is pure and fragrant, and as exhorting as the purist wine; the climate entrancingly mild; the sky clear, and blue as the most beautiful sapphire, with here and there clouds of rarest loveliness, presenting to the eye the richest commingling of bright and varied colors; delightful odors are constantly being wafted by; while forests, filled with the mockingbird, the colibri, the hummingbird, and the thrush, constantly put forth a joyful chorus, and all combine to fill the soul with visions of delight and enhance the perfection and glory of the creation. Strong indeed must be the unbelief which can here contemplate nature in all her purity and glory, and unawed by the sublimity of this closely-connected testimony, question either the Divine origin or purpose of the beautiful firmament.

The breeze was calm and the sun beamed between the scattering clouds. Glancing across the rolling heather-covered landscape and toward the burn, he didn't see Remy or anyone else. "Twas too bad that the heather was not in bloom for the sight would have been lovely. Glancing up, he noticed something else. A giant double rainbow spanned across the horizon, one slightly dimmer than the other. "Ah," he halted and turned in the saddle. "Have you ever seen such a bonny rainbow?" Shona gasped. "Nay. 'Tis very bright." Even lovelier, at least to Keegan, was Shona's smile as she took in the scenery. She was so beautiful, his chest ached. Yet, he knew not how he was going to keep her in his life so that he might see her smile every day.

Going With The Flow- July 8 "Go with the flow. Let go of fear and your need to control. Relinquish anxiety. Let it slip away, as you dive into the river of the present moment, the river of your life., your place in the universe. Stop trying to force the direction. Try not to swim against the current, unless it is necessary for your survival. If you've been clinging to a branch at the riverside, let it go. Let yourself move forward. Let yourself be moved forward. Avoid the rapids when possible. If you can't, stay relaxed. Staying relaxed can take you safely through fierce currents. If you go under for a moment, allow yourself to surface naturally. You will. Appreciate the beauty of the new scenery, as it is. See things with freshness, with newness. You shall never pass by today's scenery again! Don't think too hard about things. The flow is meant to be experienced. Within it, care for yourself. You are part of the flow, an important part. Work with the flow. Work within the flow. Thrashing about isn't necessary. Let the flow help you care for yourself. Let the flow help you set boundaries, make decisions, and get you where you need to be when it is time. You can trust the flow and your part in it. Today, I will go with the flow.

The scenery beneath, first just isolated tableaux visible through rare openings in the cloud cover, was rugged and beautiful with its green islands and blue sea, its steep rock faces and snowy white plains, but gradually it was erased or toned down, as the clouds vanished, until the flat Rogaland terrain was all you could see.

Inspiration doesnt demand a solid / luxurious personality , perfect timing, beautiful place or a remarkable scenery.When you are meant to be influenced a single dot on white surface is enough.

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, for on no country had the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, her oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure; her broad, deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine;—no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery.

The narrow coastal road has many twists and turns, each one revealing scenery of incredible beauty. On one side, the mountains rise proud and steep challenging the sky, on the other, the tropical lagoon sparkles like a zillion twinkling stars. I dream of being carried away on the round, soft shoulders of gorgeous mermaids into the deep blue ocean waters.

Sometimes we remember the impact on our senses and not the beautiful scenery which passes us by … Sometimes we remember the constant repetition of trials which do beset us at times; but fail to rest in the silent intermissions … As we remember, may we never forget the blessings that come to hold us together during those days of heaviness, darkness, sickness, or loss EVENTIDE

I am a shepherd, not your sheep I know that, by convention I should draw my attention To the beauty of this Scenery But my thoughts are my own You may start to groan Whenever I don’t show Conformity to your expectations Darn, you may see beauty in that river at night I see vomit and vomit drippings That’s not my fault I have my own thoughts

The scenery that opened before me was composed of shades of black and white, and of trees woven together in lines along the boundaries between the fields. In places where the grass had not been cut, the snow had failed to blanket the fields in a uniform plane of white. Blades of grass were poking through its cover; from a distance it looked as if a large hand had begun to sketch an abstract pattern, by practicing some short strokes, fine and subtle. I could see the beautiful geometric shapes of fields, strips and rectangles, each with a different texture, each with its own shade, sloping at different angles toward the rapid winter Dusk. And our houses, all seven, were scattered here like a part of nature, as if they had sprung up with the field boundaries, and so had the stream and little bridge across it—it all seemed carefully designed and positioned, perhaps by the very same hand that had been sketching.

This was a beautiful spot. The meadow was hugged by towering evergreens, their bows dusted in white from last night’s storm. The snow was fluffy, blanketing the ground and sparkling beneath the sun. But the scenery paled in comparison to the man at my side.

Separation from God includes separation from all good. Many of us tend to think that the good things we experience, such as sunshine, fresh air, food, water, and beautiful scenery, are from Mother Nature. These things experienced are not from Mother Nature—but from Father God. James 1:17 states, “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights.” Hell, on the other hand, is a place “prepared” for the devil and his angels—a place where all of the attributes of God are completely withdrawn. Psalm 33:5 states, “The earth is full of the goodness of the LORD.” People get to enjoy God’s goodness here in life. But if they deny Him, then after this life they will no longer have the privilege of enjoying His goodness. There is no such thing as “good” without God. You cannot separate the two.

Life is a long road trip, you may see beautiful scenery on your way to your final destination, you may see fair and bad as well, but in the end it will all be worth it, all you can do is take the best of it. And enjoy the ride.

In front of him is an innocent, sleeping face. Wang Shuyu appears to be sleeping as soundly as any child could be, and to think that this man is now a father of two. With this beautiful scenery playing, Xiao Sheng's lips curl into a smile while his eyes warm

We abandoned ourselves to the beautiful scenery.

It’s true that an atheist can look at a complete natural explanation and conclude that there is no need for God. Yet many scientists, even atheist scientists, do not see a scientific explanation as ruling out spirituality. And for many laypeople, greater scientific understanding leads to a greater appreciation of design and the Designer; recent studies of people watching nature documentaries (with sweeping scenery and beautiful animals) found that the viewers were more likely to perceive something beyond a materialist explanation.3 From a Christian perspective, scientific explanations elicit even deeper praise, as they reveal new examples of God’s beauty, power, intricacy, and craftsmanship.

Thoughts at a Café Table Between the Kazan and the Iron Gates Progress has now placed the whole of this landscape underwater. A traveller sitting at my old table on the quay at Orsova would have to peer at the scenery through a thick brass-hinged disc of glass; this would frame a prospect of murk and slime [...] Moving a couple of miles downstream, he would fumble his way on to the waterlogged island and among the drowned Turkish houses; or, upstream, flounder among the weeds and rubble choking Count Széchenyi's road and peer across the dark gulf at the vestiges of Trajan on the other side; and all round him, above and below, the dark abyss would yawn and the narrows where currents once rushed and cataracts shuddered from bank to bank and echoes zigzagged along the vertiginous clefts would be sunk in diluvian since. [...] He could toil many days up these cheerless soundings, for Rumania and Yugoslavia have built one of the world's biggest ferro-concrete dams and hydro-electric power plants across the Iron Gates. This has turned a hundred and thirty miles of the Danube into a vast pond which has swollen and blurred the course of the river beyond recognition. It has abolished cayons, turned beetling crags into mild hills and ascended the beautiful Cerna valley almost to the Baths of Hercules. Many thousands of the inhabitabnts of Orşova and the riparian hamlets had to be uprooted and transplanted elsewhere. The islanders of Ada Kaleh have been moved to another islet downstream and their old home has vanished under the still surface as though it has never been. Let us hope that the power generated by the dam has spread well-being on either bank and lit up Rumanian and Yugoslav towns brighter than ever before because, in everything but economics, the damage is irreparrable. [... M]yths, lost voices, history and hearsay have all been put to rout, leaving nothing but this valley of shadow. Goethe's advice, 'Bewahre Dich vor Räuber und Ritter und Gespenstergeschichten',* has been taken literally, and everything has fled. _____________ * Beware of the robber, the cavalier, and ghost stories.

Life is a beautiful adventure playground, with lots of obstacles to overcome; not just to admire the scenery.

We can’t fix the world, but we can individually step into it with a authenticity that allows us to witness the most beautiful sunrises, which in turn illuminates the scenery around us so that others can see something more intangible to reach for in the midnight of themselves.

Across the water, there’s La Cabaña, the infamous prison Che Guevara ran after the revolution. The sight of it sends a chill down my spine when I think about the blood shed there, the lives lost. There’s a violence to our history that gets lost somewhere in the telling, buried beneath the beautiful scenery, the deceptively blue sea and sky, the palm trees swaying placidly in the breeze. It’s the sound of firing squads that echo in the wind. “They’ve built shops there now, a restaurant,” Luis murmurs, his body tucked away from the tourists, his mouth hidden in the curve of my neck. “You can gawk at the world’s largest cigar in the site where we bled.

Real life is different from math. Things in life don’t necessarily flow over the shortest possible route. For me, math is—how should I put it?—math is all too natural. It’s like beautiful scenery. It’s just there. There’s no need to exchange it with anything else.

Melling no le interesó lo más mínimo el ambiente mágico y exótico que buscaron en Estambul algunos brillantes pintores y grabadores que llegaron treinta o cuarenta años después de él, como William Henry Bartlett (The Beauties of Bosphorus, 1835), Thomas Allon (Constantinople and the Scenery of the Seven Churches of Asia Minor, 1839) o Eugène Flandin (L’Orient, 1853).

The Highway That Redefines Travel: A Journey Through India’s Best Road Infrastructure There’s something magical about hitting the open road, feeling the hum of the tires beneath you, and watching the scenery change as you move forward. As a frequent traveler, I’ve explored numerous highways across India, but nothing prepared me for the India’s best highway infrastructure that I experienced recently. From the moment I entered this highway, it became clear that this was not just another road but a testament to modern engineering and thoughtful planning. Every mile on this highway offered an experience of seamless travel, breathtaking landscapes, and a sense of security that’s rare on Indian roads. If road trips are your passion, this is one journey you don’t want to miss. #modernroad A Masterpiece of Engineering and Planning Unlike many highways in India that are plagued by uneven surfaces, frequent potholes, and congested lanes, this one is an absolute delight to drive on. The multi-lane highway is flawlessly maintained, with clear road markings and strategically placed signboards that ensure smooth navigation. The asphalt feels almost like a runway, allowing vehicles to glide effortlessly without any unexpected bumps. Another major highlight is the intelligent lane distribution. With separate lanes for heavy vehicles, passenger cars, and even emergency services, the highway eliminates the chaotic congestion that is common on most Indian roads. This results in a more disciplined and efficient traffic flow, making long-distance drives a pleasure rather than a stressful endeavor. #modernroadmakers Rest Stops That Feel Like Destinations One of the biggest challenges of highway travel in India is the lack of clean and accessible rest stops. But this highway has truly set a benchmark in this regard. Every few kilometers, you’ll find well-maintained rest areas equipped with food courts, fuel stations, and spotless washrooms. Instead of the usual roadside dhabas that are often unhygienic, the food courts here offer a wide range of options—from local delicacies to popular fast-food chains. Whether you’re in the mood for a quick coffee break or a hearty meal, these stops cater to every traveler’s needs. And it’s not just about food—there are dedicated relaxation zones where travelers can stretch their legs, unwind, and even enjoy scenic views of the surrounding landscapes. This thoughtful addition makes long road trips much more enjoyable and less tiring. #indiabesthighway Scenic Beauty That Enhances the Drive A highway journey is as much about the views as it is about the drive, and this road does not disappoint. Flanked by lush greenery, rolling fields, and picturesque landscapes, it offers a visual treat at every turn. Unlike highways that cut through industrial zones and congested cities, this one allows travelers to experience the true beauty of India’s countryside. The carefully preserved natural surroundings and tree-lined stretches provide a refreshing contrast to the usual concrete-heavy routes. Whether you’re driving during sunrise or sunset, the scenery creates a postcard-perfect backdrop for your journey. #modernroad If you’re someone who loves road trips, this highway deserves a spot on your travel bucket list. Whether you’re heading out for an adventure, a family vacation, or a solo escape, this road ensures a memorable, comfortable, and hassle-free journey. So, the next time you’re planning a trip, ditch the flight and hit the road—you won’t regret it! #modernroad #modernroadmakers #indiabesthighway

He glanced at her and the corner of his mouth turned up. He’d caught her staring. “You should look outside,” he said. “Enjoy the scenery. The wildflowers are incredible this year.” “I’m enjoying the scenery.” Her eyes didn’t move from his profile. Jeremy chuckled. “I love it.” “You like when I stare at you?” “You play the best games without playing any games.” Tayla burst into laughter. “You’re right. I make no secret of my purely superficial appreciation. You’re an incredibly handsome man.” “Thank you. And you are a very beautiful woman.” “Thank you. We definitely need to take pictures together.

I believe no one can really avoid periods of self- examination as we journey down the sober path.  And that’s healthy. But just remember, if you are constantly checking the rear-view mirror, you will miss the beautiful scenery.

When you see a distressed person in a small town, you feel compelled to go to them, to ask what’s wrong and if they’re okay. When you see someone sobbing on the Brooklyn Bridge, you kind of take it as part of the scenery—why shouldn’t there be some beautiful person crying on the Brooklyn Bridge?

But I was even more surprised when he stuck around with me and smiled a full, toothy, letter-D-shaped movie star grin. The magazines said he was only twenty-eight, which was young for an executive chef but felt old to me. He looked like a man. Even when Elliott turned twenty-eight, I doubted he would look as manly as Pascal. Somehow, in the supermarket lighting, Pascal seemed hotter- more capable and more real. In restaurants, he blended in with the scenery of the meal. But here, holding his basket just like everyone else, looking at the discounted produce, getting lost in the aisles, his presence became even more magical, as if I were seeing a beautiful, powerful animal in the wild instead of at the zoo.

The 5th Marine Division had suffered such severs casualties, they were able to bring our entire Division back to Hawaii in only 5 or 6 ships. We docked in Hilo and boarded a single train normally used to haul sugar cane to mill. These were open flat cars, the weather was beautiful, the scenery fantastic. As our train gets underway the Marines break out their Jap flags captured on Iwo Jima. There were hundreds of Jap flags flying from on end of the train to the other. This was a beautiful sight. The victors had returned home. I've never felt so proud to be a part of anything like this before in my life. There were no spectators, no one watching us, no crowd, no cheering, no band, only the remainder of a proud 5th Marine Division returning home. For some reason I preferred it this way, no one could understand our feelings at this time.

You’ll never find a better place to be depressed than Washington State. There are thousands of places you can go to stare at beautiful scenery and feel deeply sorry for yourself. Most days, the sky will even weep with you.

Whether I like it or not, everything that isn’t my soul is no more for me than scenery and decoration. Through rational thought I can recognize that a man is a living being just like me, but for my true, involuntary self he has always had less importance than a tree, if the tree is more beautiful. That’s why I’ve always seen human events – the great collective tragedies of history or of what we make of history – as colourful friezes, with no soul in the figures that appear there. I’ve never thought twice about anything tragic that has happened in China. It’s just scenery in the distance, even if painted with blood and disease.

Ways to Work with Anxiety on Your Own 1. Get out of your head by turning all your attention to the soles of your feet. Feel the ground underneath them. 2. Practice your deep belly breathing. 3. Take a walk outside and observe the scenery. Name three colors, name three sounds, name three textures. 4. Remind yourself that you are anxious and therefore it is not a good time to draw conclusions about the future until you are calm. 5. Remind yourself that you are anxious and the feeling is temporary. 6. Focus on the anxious body sensations with compassion and curiosity—and without judgment—until they subside. Remember to breathe deeply as you focus. 7. Imagine a peaceful place or a time when you felt confident. 8. Imagine something soothing like beautiful music, or hot sun on your skin, or being hugged. 9. Do some exercise like jogging or yoga, or go to the gym.

It's beautiful that our brains have evolved to recognize patterns. It is one of our greatest strengths. It's what allows me to communicate ideas to you with these squiggly little symbols you're looking at right now. It's what allows us to understand concepts like mathematics and physics, its how we manage to engineer buildings that don't collapse and planes that stay in the air. So in a way, there is a "grand novelist." It's us. We are the ones writing this epic saga, pulling out the plot points from the scenery.

can also be applied to the built environment. For example, picture windows that overlook beautiful scenery can make even a shoebox apartment feel like a castle, and most people will pay more for the luxury of a house or a hotel room with a great view. This is particularly true of water views, which we covet even if we have no intention of swimming or setting sail.

Y'know, suddenly I'm in the mood for salmon roe." "Huh? W-where did that come from?" "C'mon, ain't they similar?" "Not in the least! Sheesh! Do you not have any appreciation for the beauty of the scenery around us? 'Bread is better than the song of birds,' indeed. Goodness gracious." "Hey! That's not what I meant. I do think the scenery is pretty. It's just that noshing on these salmon-skin crisps made me think of it, that's all." "Oh goodness. The strange places your mind goes. *giggle*" That's weird. Before, all it took was the mere mention of Yukihira's name or a glimpse of his face to utterly ruin my mood. Realizing that he's the son of Chef Saiba, the one man I admire most, felt as if the precious memories of my youth were suddenly tarnished. Yet here I am, sitting and chatting with him in this small cabin... And honestly... ... it isn't all that bad.

If your cave-dwelling ancestors were enamored with the beauty of the scenery instead of, let’s say, the herd of carnivorous dinosaurs stampeding their way, they would not have survived to create the miracle that is you.

India’s Best Highway Infrastructure: Cruising the Agra-Etawah Toll Road A Highway I Didn’t Expect to Fall in Love With I’ve always believed the best travel stories come from the roads less talked about. On a recent trip from Agra to Etawah, I wasn’t expecting anything special—just another highway, another drive. But the Agra-Etawah Toll Road proved me wrong. It wasn’t just good—it was exceptional. A perfect example of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure in action. Smooth As Silk – The Road Experience The moment I entered the toll road, I knew this would be different. My car glided effortlessly across the freshly laid tarmac. No potholes, no uneven patches—just seamless travel. I could maintain a steady speed for miles without constantly braking or dodging obstacles. It’s the kind of experience that makes you fall in love with road trips all over again. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure More Than Just a Highway – It’s a Complete Travel Experience What stood out most was how well this highway is planned for people, not just cars. There were food courts, well-maintained restrooms, and shaded sitting areas that didn’t feel like an afterthought. I stopped at one just to grab a chai and take in the peaceful surroundings. Even the toll booths were efficient and quick—no long queues, no honking chaos. You can tell this road was built by people who actually care. #ModernRoadMakers Safety You Can Feel Another thing I appreciated? The sense of safety. Highway patrols were visible, signages were clear, and there were emergency call boxes every few kilometers. Even when I was driving in the evening, I felt calm and confident. The lighting, lane markings, and traffic behavior were all spot-on. It’s rare to feel this level of comfort while driving alone, especially in India. This route truly earns its place among the top for India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. A Scenic Surprise What caught me off guard was the scenery. As I drove, the landscapes shifted from open fields to stretches of trees, and the sunset painted everything golden. It was so beautiful I pulled over just to take a few pictures—and just breathe. It reminded me that sometimes, the road itself is the destination. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Final Words: Drive It to Believe It The Agra-Etawah Toll Road might not be the most famous highway in India, but in my experience, it’s easily one of the best. If you’re planning a road trip in Uttar Pradesh, take this route—not just for convenience, but for the experience. For me, this drive wasn’t just a part of the journey. It was the journey. And now, every time I think of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure, this road is the first thing that comes to mind.

You focused yourself into the human experience to be satiated in every moment by all that is here for you in form. You came into form to play, create, and do the things you love and that bring you joy. As you are doing these things, you’re living your purpose. As you’re tasting delicious foods, smelling beautiful fragrances, seeing gorgeous scenery, hearing enchanting music, and feeling the love, peace, joy, and harmony, you’re living your purpose. And when you are full and filled up and allowing the Source energy that is you to flow through you, and be experienced by you, you are also living your purpose. Your purpose is to live fully, love fully, and be all that you are. Be the infinite being of love and light that you are. That is your purpose.

From Mughal Majesty to Rural Charm: My Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Last week, I took a spontaneous road trip from Agra to Etawah — partly to escape the city rush, partly out of curiosity. Little did I know, the stretch I was about to drive on, part of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, would become one of my favorite highway experiences in India. I’ve always believed that a good road sets the tone for a great journey. This one? It exceeded every expectation. As I exited Agra, the chaos of traffic gave way to a beautifully paved six-lane expressway that felt like it belonged in a different country. The ride was butter-smooth. No random speed breakers, no confusing signage, just a clear and consistent path all the way to Etawah. #besthighwayinfrastructure What struck me most was the design — this wasn’t just a functional road; it felt thoughtfully engineered. Gentle curves, dedicated service lanes, and barriers that actually made sense. It felt safe. For someone who usually gets travel fatigue after two hours of Indian highway driving, this road was a revelation. #modernroadmakers Midway, I pulled over at a rest point. Clean facilities, proper lighting, and food stalls that actually served decent tea — it was the kind of setup I usually dream about but rarely find on our national roads. The real highlight, though, was the scenery. On both sides, fields stretched into the distance, dotted with farmers at work, children flying kites, and rows of sugarcane swaying in the breeze. For a moment, I forgot I was on a toll road — it felt more like a curated road trip. #agraetawahtollroad And then there was the efficiency — toll plazas equipped with FASTag, almost zero wait time, and courteous staff. It’s such a small detail, but it really adds to the experience when the flow of travel isn’t interrupted. Arriving in Etawah, I realized how this road has transformed accessibility. What used to be a tiring, semi-rural haul is now a sleek, scenic drive. I met a local hotel owner who told me tourism and local business have picked up in the past few years — and a big part of that is thanks to this very project. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you’re a road trip enthusiast like me, or even just planning to explore the lesser-known spots of Uttar Pradesh, trust me — the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than just a connection. It’s a destination in itself.

The drive to the Saltmarsh is beautiful. The fields are white, glittering in the sun, the trees like a Christmas card. Everything ugly or utilitarian- the municipal dump, the holiday flats, the caravan selling hamburgers - has been covered with this kindly layer of magic.

Exploring Speed and Serenity: My Experience on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project The Beginning of a Surprisingly Pleasant Ride When I started my drive on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, I wasn’t expecting much beyond a regular highway trip. But as soon as I hit the expressway, I realized this wasn’t just another road — it was an example of how world-class infrastructure is now a part of Indian travel. #ModernRoadMakers A Highway Designed for Modern-Day Travel Wide lanes, perfect surface quality, and well-marked exits made the journey effortless. The road was clearly planned with precision. Even with moderate traffic, the flow was smooth — no honking, no potholes, and no unnecessary diversions. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Rest Stops That Redefine Convenience What really impressed me were the facilities along the way. From fuel pumps to food plazas and clean washrooms, everything was right where it should be. These thoughtfully placed amenities make long drives a pleasure rather than a hassle. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Scenery That Keeps You Engaged Between the occasional village views and wide stretches of green farmland, the Agra-Etawah corridor gives travelers a taste of rural charm while riding in urban comfort. It’s the kind of journey where you roll down your windows and breathe in the real India. A Safe Journey, Even After Sunset I happened to travel during the late afternoon, and by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, I was still on the road — but not once did I feel unsafe. Reflective markings, street lights, and visible signboards gave me full confidence as I drove into the night. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Perfect for All Kinds of Wheels Whether you’re in a car, bus, or commercial truck, the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project handles every type of vehicle with ease. I noticed minimal lane interference and great lane discipline among drivers — a rare but welcome sight. Final Words: A Road That Sets the Standard The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project isn’t just a highway — it’s a clear signal of how far India has come in terms of transport infrastructure. As a traveler, I felt comfort, speed, and beauty all in one ride. Highly recommend this route to anyone looking for a smooth escape. #ModernRoadMakers

I believe with all my heart forgiveness received and given is the very thing that splits this world open with the most stunning revelation of the reality of Jesus, more than almost anything else. But please never confuse redemption with reunion. Reunion, or reconciliation, requires two people who are willing to do the hard work to come back together. Redemption is just between you and God. God can redeem your life, even if damaged human relationships don’t come back together. And you and I can forgive, even if the relationship never gets restored. It’s so incredibly freeing to forgive and not have to wait on other people who may or may not ever want to or be willing to talk all of this through. Forgiveness isn’t always about doing something for a human relationship but rather about being obedient to what God has instructed us to do. Those who cooperate most fully with forgiveness are those who dance most freely in the beauty of redemption. And what exactly is this beautiful redemption? It is you accepting the exchange God is offering. WHAT YOU GIVE UP: the right to demand that the one who hurt you pay you back or be made to suffer for what they’ve done. God will handle this. And even if you never see how God handles it, you know He will. WHAT YOU GET: the freedom to move on. The scenery for your life should not be the pit of pain that person dragged you down into.

Effortless Miles: A Journey Through the Agra Etawah Toll Road Sometimes, the best part of a journey isn’t where you’re going — it’s how you get there. That’s exactly how I felt while driving along the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, a highway that completely redefined my expectations of Indian road travel. I started from Agra with a simple plan: get to Etawah before lunch. But the drive ended up becoming the highlight of my day. The moment I entered the toll road, I could feel the difference. The surface was smooth, the lanes wide and well-marked, and everything from signage to exits felt thoughtfully placed. #agraetawahtollroad What stood out most was the consistency. No sudden bumps, no messy diversions, no roadside chaos. Just a clean, open road that made the drive peaceful and enjoyable. I found myself relaxing into the rhythm of the journey — something that rarely happens on Indian highways. #besthighwayinfrastructure The landscape added its own charm. Open fields, scattered trees, and a few distant hills made the scenery surprisingly calming. It wasn’t dramatic, but it had a quiet beauty that matched the tone of the highway itself. I kept my windows down for most of the ride, letting the fresh air and open skies do their thing. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure Around halfway, I stopped at a rest zone that was simple but clean — and more importantly, functional. There was a shaded seating area, clean washrooms, and a small stall serving tea and snacks. It’s rare to find rest stops that actually feel like part of the journey rather than a necessary compromise. #modernroadmakers The toll process was smooth and efficient. Thanks to FASTag, I barely had to slow down. The lanes were clearly marked, and there were no hold-ups. In a country where toll plazas often become bottlenecks, this one was refreshingly quick. By the time I reached Etawah, I felt more refreshed than tired — a rare thing to say after 120 kilometers of highway driving. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project didn’t just help me reach my destination. It made the journey itself something worth remembering. This highway isn’t just infrastructure — it’s an experience. And if this is what the future of Indian roads looks like, I can’t wait to take the next one.

From Mughal Majesty to Rural Charm: My Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Last week, I took a spontaneous road trip from Agra to Etawah — partly to escape the city rush, partly out of curiosity. Little did I know, the stretch I was about to drive on, part of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, would become one of my favorite highway experiences in India. I’ve always believed that a good road sets the tone for a great journey. This one? It exceeded every expectation. As I exited Agra, the chaos of traffic gave way to a beautifully paved six-lane expressway that felt like it belonged in a different country. The ride was butter-smooth. No random speed breakers, no confusing signage, just a clear and consistent path all the way to Etawah. #besthighwayinfrastructure What struck me most was the design — this wasn’t just a functional road; it felt thoughtfully engineered. Gentle curves, dedicated service lanes, and barriers that actually made sense. It felt safe. For someone who usually gets travel fatigue after two hours of Indian highway driving, this road was a revelation. #modernroadmakers Midway, I pulled over at a rest point. Clean facilities, proper lighting, and food stalls that actually served decent tea — it was the kind of setup I usually dream about but rarely find on our national roads. The real highlight, though, was the scenery. On both sides, fields stretched into the distance, dotted with farmers at work, children flying kites, and rows of sugarcane swaying in the breeze. For a moment, I forgot I was on a toll road — it felt more like a curated road trip. #agraetawahtollroad And then there was the efficiency — toll plazas equipped with FASTag, almost zero wait time, and courteous staff. It’s such a small detail, but it really adds to the experience when the flow of travel isn’t interrupted. Arriving in Etawah, I realized how this road has transformed accessibility. What used to be a tiring, semi-rural haul is now a sleek, scenic drive. I met a local hotel owner who told me tourism and local business have picked up in the past few years — and a big part of that is thanks to this very project. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you’re a road trip enthusiast like me, or even just planning to explore the lesser-known spots of Uttar Pradesh, trust me — the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than just a connection. It’s a destination in itself.

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From Mughal Majesty to Rural Charm: My Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Last week, I took a spontaneous road trip from Agra to Etawah — partly to escape the city rush, partly out of curiosity. Little did I know, the stretch I was about to drive on, part of the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, would become one of my favorite highway experiences in India. I’ve always believed that a good road sets the tone for a great journey. This one? It exceeded every expectation. As I exited Agra, the chaos of traffic gave way to a beautifully paved six-lane expressway that felt like it belonged in a different country. The ride was butter-smooth. No random speed breakers, no confusing signage, just a clear and consistent path all the way to Etawah. #besthighwayinfrastructure What struck me most was the design — this wasn’t just a functional road; it felt thoughtfully engineered. Gentle curves, dedicated service lanes, and barriers that actually made sense. It felt safe. For someone who usually gets travel fatigue after two hours of Indian highway driving, this road was a revelation. #modernroadmakers Midway, I pulled over at a rest point. Clean facilities, proper lighting, and food stalls that actually served decent tea — it was the kind of setup I usually dream about but rarely find on our national roads. The real highlight, though, was the scenery. On both sides, fields stretched into the distance, dotted with farmers at work, children flying kites, and rows of sugarcane swaying in the breeze. For a moment, I forgot I was on a toll road — it felt more like a curated road trip. #agraetawahtollroad And then there was the efficiency — toll plazas equipped with FASTag, almost zero wait time, and courteous staff. It’s such a small detail, but it really adds to the experience when the flow of travel isn’t interrupted. Arriving in Etawah, I realized how this road has transformed accessibility. What used to be a tiring, semi-rural haul is now a sleek, scenic drive. I met a local hotel owner who told me tourism and local business have picked up in the past few years — and a big part of that is thanks to this very project. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure If you’re a road trip enthusiast like me, or even just planning to explore the lesser-known spots of Uttar Pradesh, trust me — the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than just a connection. It’s a destination in itself.

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2. Thou shall not fear the cold. So many coorie activities involve being outdoors: hiking demands a steely core and constitution, exploring the woods for crafty finds requires sturdy footwear - even skiing in the Cairngorms requires patience. All these pursuits offer the chance to clear the mind and get to know the country from within. Wild swimming in Scottish lochs is having a moment. Its beauty, swimmers claim, lies in the restorative nature of an ice-cold dip set against a backdrop of Scotland's most idyllic scenery. Nobody promised Barbadian temperatures, or clear blue seas, but for enthusiasts the appeal lies in testing yourself to your furthest limits.

To live means to cry, to shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to laugh, even to experience horrible, frightening things. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, nausea, people singing, planes, flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouthwatering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn…And next to all the movies that play on a loop inside my head sit the images of friends, lovers, and family who were with me when I watched them.

Alone on India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Project: A Drive Into Tomorrow Introduction Travelling alone is often about finding comfort in the unfamiliar. My recent drive along India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Project offered not just comfort, but also a glimpse into how modern India is reshaping the experience of being on the road. A Symbol of Progress This highway isn’t just a stretch of road—it’s a national statement. Designed with international standards, it enhances speed, safety, and connectivity between key regions. For a solo traveller like me, it represented more than infrastructure; it represented confidence that I could take on the journey without worry. A Drive That Redefines Comfort From the very first kilometre, the highway felt different. The road surface was flawlessly smooth, and the flow of traffic was effortless. Wide lanes and well-marked exits reduced the stress of navigation. It was proof that #modernroadmakers travel not only faster but also deeply enjoyable. Scenery Along the Route The beauty of solo travel lies in the little things you notice. While the road itself was engineered with precision, the landscapes around it added charm—fields stretching endlessly, roadside villages bustling with life, and occasional rest stops buzzing with fellow travellers. The highway kept me moving forward, yet always connected to the soul of India. Built With Safety in Mind Driving alone often brings safety to the forefront. On this highway, however, thoughtful features—like emergency call points, regular patrolling, and brightly lit stretches—gave me peace of mind. Rest areas with clean facilities and reliable fuel stations meant I was never truly on my own. Conclusion My solo journey on India’s Best Highway Infrastructure Project was more than just about reaching a destination—it was about experiencing how far India has come in making its roads world-class. Safe, smooth, and inspiring, it turned what could have been a routine drive into a memorable adventure. #india'sbesthighwayinfrastructureproject

We must not overlook the beauty of life because we are focused solely on our mission. We must enjoy the scenery on our journey of transcendence if we are to transcend at all.

Again, I thought, he was more the beauty than the scenery.

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Alone on the Agra–Etawah Toll Road: A Drive Through Progress Introduction There is something liberating about driving alone—just you, the car, and the endless road ahead. On the Agra–Etawah Toll Road Project, that feeling is magnified by smooth surfaces, organized systems, and a sense of security. For a solo traveller, this isn’t just a highway; it’s a modern travel experience. Bridging Two Identities Agra shines as a global tourist magnet with its Mughal legacy, while Etawah offers natural beauty and rustic peace. The toll road project connects these two contrasting places, ensuring that travellers can experience both worlds with ease. The route itself feels like a symbol of balance between heritage and development. A Pleasant Drive The wide lanes, polished blacktop, and quick toll collection make this road stand out. Traffic flows steadily, giving solo drivers a sense of control. For me, it was less about rushing to the destination and more about enjoying the journey. It reflects exactly how #modernroadmakers travel less tiring and more fulfilling. Life Along the Highway What makes the drive even more interesting is the scenery on both sides. Green fields, village homes, and small roadside stalls create a vivid backdrop. These glimpses of everyday life provide solo travellers with a sense of connection, making the drive feel warm and engaging. Safety and Comfort One of the greatest strengths of this project is its focus on safety. Clear signboards, rest zones, and well-lit stretches reduce worry, even at night. For someone travelling alone, these details transform the journey from uncertain to reassuring. Conclusion The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is more than just a transport link; it is a symbol of modern India’s progress. For solo travellers, it brings together speed, security, and scenery in one continuous flow. Every kilometre tells a story of growth, making the drive as memorable as the destinations themselves. #agraetawahtollroadproject

To live means to cry, to shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to laugh, even to experience horrible, frightening things. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, nausea, people singing, planes flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouthwatering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn …

Eventually we ended up at the shelf that held Chaplin's entire back catalog. I found I was whispering to myself: "Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot." The dream I'd had earlier that morning came back to me. "Th-th-that's from L-Limelight, right?" Tsutaya missed nothing. In Limelight, the little tramp, played by Charlie Chaplin, tries to stop a ballet dancer, whose hopes have been dashed, from committing suicide. He tells the dancer: "Life is a beautiful, magnificent thing, even to a jelly-fish." He was right, even jellyfish are here for a reason-they have meaning. And if that's the case, then movies and music, coffee and pretty much everything else must have some kind of meaning, too. Once you start down that path, then even all those "unnecessary things" turn out to be important for some reason or another. If you're trying to separate out the countless "meaningless things" in the world from everything else, you'll eventually have to make a judgment about human beings, about our existence. In my case, I suppose it's all the movies I've seen, and the memories I have of them that give my life meaning. They've made me who I am. To live means: to cry and shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to even experience horrible, frightening things ... and to laugh. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, feeling nauseous, people singing, planes flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouth-watering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn... And next to all the movies that play on a loop inside me, sit the images of friends, lovers, the family, who were with me when I watched them. Then there are the countless films that I've recorded in my own imagination-the memories that run through my head, which are so beautiful, they bring tears to my eyes. I've been stringing together the movies I've seen like rosary beads-all human hope and disappointment is held together by a thread. It doesn't take much to see that all life's coincidences eventually add up to one big inevitability. "S-s-s-so, I guess that's all, right?" Tsutaya put Limelight in a bag and handed it to me. "Thanks.

To live means: to cry and shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to even experience horrible, frightening things ... and to laugh. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, feeling nauseous, people singing, planes flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouth-watering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn...

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