Botany Love Quotes

Iran. Hot for certainties, but all us women get are rhymes. Always a metaphor; always a clever turn of phrase; always quoting poets without giving a direct answer. Give us definitive wedding dates. That's certainty! Those are the certainties we ache for--as certain as the sunlight that our sun-loving botany aches for.

{Yogananda on the death of his dear friend, the eminent 20th century scientist, Luther Burbank} His heart was fathomlessly deep, long acquainted with humility, patience, sacrifice. His little home amid the roses was austerely simple; he knew the worthlessness of luxury, the joy of few possessions. The modesty with which he wore his scientific fame repeatedly reminded me of the trees that bend low with the burden of ripening fruits; it is the barren tree that lifts its head high in an empty boast. I was in New York when, in 1926, my dear friend passed away. In tears I thought, 'Oh, I would gladly walk all the way from here to Santa Rosa for one more glimpse of him!' Locking myself away from secretaries and visitors, I spent the next twenty-four hours in seclusion... His name has now passed into the heritage of common speech. Listing 'burbank' as a transitive verb, Webster's New International Dictionary defines it: 'To cross or graft (a plant). Hence, figuratively, to improve (anything, as a process or institution) by selecting good features and rejecting bad, or by adding good features.' 'Beloved Burbank,' I cried after reading the definition, 'your very name is now a synonym for goodness!

The underlying melody via every rock, plant, animal, sky and star, inside the water, from the dirt, through the light: only love lasts.

After a few days of rain, the seedlings will push through the soil and unfold their tiny leaves. Two weeks later, if the rain is still good, we then carefully apply the first round of fertilizer, because each seedling requires love and attention like any living thing if it's going to grow up strong.

This is a world where things move at their own pace, including a tiny lift Fortey and I shared with a scholarly looking elderly man with whom Fortey chatted genially and familiarly as we proceeded upwards at about the rate that sediments are laid down. When the man departed, Fortey said to me: "That was a very nice chap named Norman who's spent forty-two years studying one species of plant, St. John's wort. He retired in 1989, but he still comes in every week." "How do you spend forty-two years on one species of plant?" I asked. "It's remarkable, isn't it?" Fortey agreed. He thought for a moment. "He's very thorough apparently." The lift door opened to reveal a bricked over opening. Fortey looked confounded. "That's very strange," he said. "That used to be Botany back there." He punched a button for another floor, and we found our way at length to Botany by means of back staircases and discreet trespass through yet more departments where investigators toiled lovingly over once-living objects.

And I went on to deliver such a diatribe while comparing botany and the world, that we ended miles away from the dividing wall, and the Countess must have supposed me to be a wretched and wounded sufferer worthy of her pity. However, at the end of half an hour my neighbor naturally brought me back to the point; for women, when they are not in love, have all the cold blood of an experienced attorney.

There is a lovely term in botany-vernalization- referring to seeds that can only thrive in spring if they have been through the severity of winter. Without the stress of cold in a temperate climate, without the cycle of seasons, grapes would not be able to make ice wine. If we didn’t remember winter in spring, it wouldn’t be as lovely…We would be playing life with no flats or sharps, on a piano with no white keys.

To her father who had taught her what she knew of botany, the love of Nature had been a kind of religion, a form of spiritual striving: he had believed that in trying to comprehend the inner vitality of each species, human beings could transcend the mundane world and its artificial divisions. If botany was the Scripture of this religion, then horticulture was its form of worship: tending a garden was, for Pierre Lambert, no mere matter of planting seeds and pruning branches--it was a spiritual discipline, a means of communicating with forms of life that were necessarily mute and could be understood only through a careful study of their own modes of expression--the languages of efflorescence, growth and decay: only thus, he taught Paulette, could human beings apprehend the vital energies that constitute the Spirit of the Earth.

Primer of Love [Lesson 30] I didn't fall in love of course it's never up to you but she was walking back and forth and i was passing through ~ Leonard Cohen, Book of Longing Lesson 30) First fall in love, then grow in love, then harvest in love. The falling is the chemistry, the growing is the botany and the harvesting is the phenomenology of love. A couple in love is always planting seeds and nurturing them with tears and laughter. When their old they have this prickly bush in the garage they have no fucking idea what to do with. Really, they harvest a life well spent. ღ ღ ღ

What would have happened, I wondered, if Clover and Jotter never ran the river—if they had listened to the critics and doomsayers, or to their own doubts? They brought knowledge, energy, and passion to their botanical work, but also a new perspective. Before them, men had gone down the Colorado to sketch dams, plot railroads, dig gold, and daydream little Swiss chalets stuck up on the cliffs. They saw the river for what it could be, harnessed for human use. Clover and Jotter saw it as it was, a living system made up of flower, leaf, and thorn, lovely in its fierceness, worthy of study for its own sake. They knew every saltbush twig and stickery cactus was, in its own way, as much a marvel as Boulder Dam—shaped to survive against all the odds. In the United States, half of all bachelor’s degrees in science, engineering, and mathematics go to women, yet these women go on to earn only 74 percent of a man’s salary in those fields. A recent study found that it will be another two decades before women and men publish papers at equal rates in the field of botany, a field traditionally welcoming to women. It may take four decades for chemistry, and three centuries for physics. Stereotypes linger of scientists as white-coated, wild-haired men, and they limit the ways in which young people envision their futures. In a famous, oft-replicated study, 70 percent of six-year-old girls, asked to draw a picture of a scientist, draw a woman, but only 25 percent do so at the age of sixteen.

Dear Kitty, Another birthday has gone by, so now I’m fifteen. I received quite a lot of presents. All five parts of Sprenger’s History of Art, a set of underwear, a handkerchief, two bottles of yoghurt, a pot of jam, a spiced gingerbread cake, and a book on botany from Mummy and Daddy, a double bracelet from Margot, a book from the Van Daans, sweet peas from Dussel, sweets and exercise books from Miep and Elli and, the high spot of all, the book Maria Theresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from Kraler. A lovely bunch of peonies from Peter, the poor boy took a lot of trouble to try and find something, but didn’t have any luck. There’s still excellent news of the invasion, in spite of the wretched weather, countless gales, heavy rains, and high seas. Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhower, and Arnold visited French villages which have been conquered and liberated. The torpedo boat that Churchill was in shelled the coast. He appears, like so many men, not to know what fear is—makes me envious! It’s difficult for us to judge from our secret redoubt how people outside have reacted to the news. Undoubtedly people are pleased that the idle (?) English have rolled up their sleeves and are doing something at last. Any Dutch people who still look down on the English, scoff at England and her government of old gentlemen, call the English cowards, and yet hate the Germans deserve a good shaking. Perhaps it would put some sense into their woolly brains. I hadn’t had a period for over two months, but it finally started again on Saturday. Still, in spite of all the unpleasantness and bother, I’m glad it hasn’t failed me any longer. Yours, Anne

But everything else appealed too, all the paraphernalia that went with making marks on paper: fresh exercise books full of lined pages just waiting to be filled, botany books with one page lined and one page blank, project books with blank pages throughout, sketchbooks for drawing, rulers, paste, scissors, fountain pens, nibs, ink, lead pencils, erasers. They were best when new, of course, when everything lay ahead of them, and before any mistakes and erasures had occurred. Which is no doubt why I loved them, because they were promise made manifest.

As he learned more from his father in school he was led to reading every book he could find as long as it was not too religious. Of course he devoured books on botany and insects and birds. But he read other books as well. For his curiosity was compelling. In this way he discovered the power of books. As much as he loved his surroundings he now realized only books could now take him outside his surroundings. He did read the Bible but he read only the historical books of the Old Testament as adventure stories.

I am sure you are only being modest. Particularly if you like such serious pastimes as botany lectures and books. I can't see the point to either, but dear Grace loves anything that exercises her mind." Lord Jack turned his head, his jewel-colored eyes meeting Grace's over the top of her aunt's bonnet. "Nothing wrong with a bit of exercise for the mind. Or the body." Warmth swirled abruptly to life within her. Anxious to extinguish the flame, Grace looked away.

maybe his libido was submerged in some sort of polymorphous love of nature, as some biographers have theorized about Thoreau.

For many flowers the great love of their lives now is humankind.

There’s lots o’ bad things ’appen in this world. Lots o’ bad things what ’appen, and lots o’ folks what do bad things. But there’s good, too. Lots o’ good. Me mum, before they put her on that ship for Botany Bay, she told me never to forget that. She said that things like ’onor, and justice, and love are the most important things in the world and that it’s up to each and every one of us to always try to be the best person we can possibly be.

That was precisely what Vicente loved about drugs: the surprise. The body's unexpected reactions. The chemical interactions between a living body and a substance that was also alive in a way, infinite number of physical experiences that could result, depending on the day, time, situation, dose, ambient temperature and what he had eating before ingesting the drug. He could talk about it for hours, with the expertise of a trained pharmacist. In this domain Vicente was a true scholar, with significant knowledge of chemistry, botany, anatomy, and psychology; he would have been among the highest scorers if there had been a competetive examen toxicology.

At the elementary school, for instance, I spent an hour a week on “botany,” which was an excuse for wandering through Epping Forest in charge of a master who, in his turn, regarded the hour as an excuse for a pleasant smoke in the open air. The result is that Botany to me to-day stands for just a few words like “calyx,” “stamen,” and “capillary attraction,” plus the memory of lovely hours amidst trees and bracken. I do not complain.

ক্যাঙারু , ভাই ক্যাঙারু! তুমি অস্ট্রেলিয়ার আত্মা এই ব্যর্থতা থেকে পরিত্রাণ এই নির্জনতার সঙ্গী তোমারই জন্যে তৈরি হয়েছে পৃথিবীর এই পঞ্চম, ঘন মহাদেশ, যেন নতুন জন্ম হলো তার, যেন আদিযুগে সে তো ছিল না, (গোড়ার কাজটা ভালো লেগেছিল, সেই প্রেরণায় ঈশ্বর, তাঁর আপন সৃষ্টি আশীর্বাদ করেছেন) প্রথম পাপেই উঠে এল এই মহাদেশ, সেই অভিশাপ থেকে আজ এ-বন্ধ্যা জঙ্গল! ক্যাঙারু, ভাই ক্যাঙারু! একনজরে তো অসংগতিই দেখেছি পরমুহূর্তে গোলমাল মিটে

tradition and Edie couldn’t be happier about it. The inn had been Paul’s idea, but she’d taken to it with gusto. With each month that passed after they arrived in the north, Edie had embraced a new aspect of their adventure. She’d worked with the architect they’d found in Brisbane to put together the best possible design. She’d selected every paint colour, each item of furniture, and the eclectic decorative items that were scattered over tables, buffets, mantles, and hung on walls. As it all came together, she’d embraced it, learned to love it in a way she hadn’t imagined she could. Keith loved it there as well. He spent much of each day traipsing through the sand to build sandcastles or cubbies. They’d bought him a book on botany and bird life for his last birthday, and she often found him sitting with it in his lap as he studied a bird or plant in front of him. He’d become a precocious, intelligent, and curious little boy, and being with him made her heart sing. Seeing their little family seated around the small dining table she’d set up in the kitchen, often brought a lump to her throat. They’d done the impossible, created a life out of the remnants evil had left them. And they were happy. Guests milled about behind them in the sitting room. The smell of apple cider filled the air. Paul had insisted she make it for the guests, though she’d assured him that a hot Australian Christmas didn’t need apple cider, it required

even though José has no formal knowledge of botany, and could not be taught it or understand it if he tried. His mind is not built for the abstract, the conceptual. That is not available to him as a path to truth. But he has a passion and a real power for the particular—he loves it, he enters into it, he re-creates it. And the particular, if one is particular enough, is also a road—one might say nature's road—to reality and truth.

plants are so much more. When I look at them, I see an intricate balance of light, water, and nutrients, chemical reactions responding to environmental cues and variables. The plants and their interactions with their environment and with one another tell a story, a story of competition and victory, of deception and commerce, of sex and survival. There are enough stories to fill dozens of books

PLANTS ARE LIKE ANIMALS Only about five processes are fundamental to life, no matter the kingdom. These processes are growth, feeding, defense, reproduction, and dispersal. Everything else is gravy