Rice Terraces Quotes

We will go out into the world and plant gardens and orchards to the horizons, we will build roads through the mountains and across the deserts, and terrace the mountains and irrigate the deserts until there will be garden everywhere, and plenty for all, and there will be no more empires or kingdoms, no more caliphs, sultans, emirs, khans, or zamindars, no more kings or queens or princes, no more quadis or mullahs or ulema, no more slavery and no more usury, no more property and no more taxes, no more rich and no more poor, no killing or maiming or torture or execution, no more jailers and no more prisoners, no more generals, soldiers, armies or navies, no more patriarchy, no more caste, no more hunger, no more suffering than what life brings us for being born and having to die, and then we will see for the first time what kind of creatures we really are.

I looked at the terraced hills and noticed how the people had changed the earth, taming it into dizzying staircases of rice paddies; but the Chinese looked at the people and saw how they have been shaped by the land.

At this very moment, the thumb of Ricardo's hovering shadow jabbed her in her left eye, revealing for all the world the shallowness of her water table. Rice could have been planted at that instant on the terraces of her flesh and sprouted in strength and beauty in the floods that overwhelmed her from that moment on through all the afternoon.

The Philippines is also home to world-renowned natural wonders like an underground river and rice terraces, incredible diving spots rich in biodiversity, colorful public transportation, unique cuisine, vibrant festivals that showcase its colorful culture, and friendly locals regarded as some of the happiest in the world.

1) Did the people of Viet Nam use lanterns of stone? 2) Did they hold ceremonies to reverence the opening of buds? 3) Were they inclined to quiet laughter? 4) Did they use bone and ivory, jade and silver, for ornament? 5) Had they an epic poem? 6) Did they distinguish between speech and singing? 1) Sir, their light hearts turned to stone. It is not remembered whether in gardens stone lanterns illumined pleasant ways. 2) Perhaps they gathered once to delight in blossom, but after the children were killed there were no more buds. 3) Sir, laughter is bitter to the burned mouth. 4) A dream ago, perhaps. Ornament is for joy. All the bones were charred. 5) It is not remembered. Remember, most were peasants; their life was in rice and bamboo. When peaceful clouds were reflected in the paddies and the water buffalo stepped surely along terraces, maybe fathers told their sons old tales. When bombs smashed those mirrors there was time only to scream. 6) There is an echo yet of their speech which was like a song. It was reported their singing resembled the flight of moths in moonlight. Who can say? It is silent now.

A folktale in Hokkaido just after the war and passed from conductor to conductor held that the floor of heaven is laced with silver train tracks, and the third rail is solid pearl. The trains that ran along them were fabulous even by the Shinkansen of today: carriages containing whole pine forests hung with gold lanterns, carriages full of rice terraces, carriages lined in red silk where the meal service bought soup, rice-balls, and a neat lump of opium with persimmon tea poured over it in the most delicate of cups. These trains sped past each other, utterly silent, carrying each a complement of ghosts who clutched the branches like leather handholds, and plucked the green rice to eat raw, amd fell back insensate into the laps of women whose faces were painted red from brow to chin. They never stop, never slow, and only with great courage and grace could a spirit slowly progress from car to car, all the way to the conductor's cabin, where all accounts cease, and no man knows what lies therein. In Hokkaido, where the snow and the ice are so white and pure they glow blue, it is said only the highest engineers of Japan Railways know the layout of the railroads on the floor of heaven. They say that these exalted engineers are working slowly, generation by generation, to lay the tracks to earth so that they mirror exactly the tracks in heaven. When this is done, those marvelous carriages will fall from the sky, and we may know on earth, without paying the terrible fare of death, the gaze of the red women, the light of the forest lanterns, and the taste of persimmon tea.

The road climbed higher into the mountains of Nikko National Park, the terraced farm fields giving way grudgingly to forests of tiny trees that seemed to be trimmed, the growth around them carefully cultivated. From a narrow defile the car was passed through a massive wooden gate that swung on a huge arch ornately carved with the figures of fierce dragons. From there a perfectly maintained road of crushed white gravel led up the valley to a broad forested ledge through which a narrow stream bubbled and plunged over the sheer edge. The view from the top was breathtaking. Perched on the far edge was a traditionally styled Japanese house, low to the ground and rambling in every direction. Tiled roofs, rice-paper screens and walls, carved beams, courtyards, broad verandas, gardens, ponds, and ancient statues and figures gave the spot an unreal air, as if it were a setting in a fairy tale

So to avoid the twin dangers of nostalgia and despairing bitterness, I'll just say that in Cartagena we'd spend a whole month of happiness, and sometimes even a month and a half, or even longer, going out in Uncle Rafa's motorboat, La Fiorella, to Bocachica to collect seashells and eat fried fish with plantain chips and cassava, and to the Rosary Islands, where I tried lobster, or to the beach at Bocagrande, or walking to the pool at the Caribe Hotel, until we were mildly burned on our shoulders, which after a few days started peeling and turned freckly forever, or playing football with my cousins, in the little park opposite Bocagrande Church, or tennis in the Cartagena Club or ping-pong in their house, or going for bike rides, or swimming under the little nameless waterfalls along the coast, or making the most of the rain and the drowsiness of siesta time to read the complete works of Agatha Christie or the fascinating novels of Ayn Rand (I remember confusing the antics of the architect protagonist of The Fountainhead with those of my uncle Rafael), or Pearl S. Buck's interminable sagas, in cool hammocks strung up in the shade on the terrace of the house, with a view of the sea, drinking Kola Roman, eating Chinese empanadas on Sundays, coconut rice with red snapper on Mondays, Syrian-Lebanese kibbeh on Wednesdays, sirloin steak on Fridays and, my favourite, egg arepas on Saturday mornings, piping hot and brought fresh from a nearby village, Luruaco, where they had the best recipe.

The land looks flat from above, but these Chinese rice paddies are terraced for a better yield. Farmers have created these “steps” in China and the Philippines for as long as two millennia; they’re considered a marvel of ancient engineering. (JIALIANG GAO/GETTY IMAGES. ZUBIN LI/GETTY IMAGES)

It was the early eighties, and the food situation went from bad to worse. A common slogan at the time was “Communism means rice!” It was repeated all over. Farm laborers and students worked together to make terraced rice fields on mountainsides. But when the rainy season came, most of the fields were washed away due to poor planning. Even the fields that survived weren’t in good enough shape to grow anything properly. Oh, and we still had to plant the seedlings very close to one another

Ashok stopped for breath, and was surprised to see his father smiling. Then Ramnath said, ‘My son, you have finally realized how hard it is to earn even the smallest sum. Now you know the effort one has to put in to bring home an honest day’s wage. I think you are ready to start off on your own. I will help you in your business. Never forget the virtues of hard work and honesty.’ Ashok smiled and nodded. He had learnt a very valuable lesson from his wise father. The Bird with Golden Wings Varsha lived with her mother, who worked as a cook in a rich man’s house. Every evening, her mother returned from work with a little rice, which she would then cook for herself and her daughter. Varsha and her mother lived happily enough, satisfied with what they had. One evening, Varsha’s mother brought home some extra rice. Before leaving the next morning, she cleaned it and spread it on a mat to dry in the terrace. Then she called Varsha and said, ‘Sit here and see that no bird pecks at the rice. I will cook this for us when I return in the evening.’ Varsha sat down by the rice with a little stick in her hand. After a while, a tiny sparrow came hopping by. It looked hungrily at the grains. Varsha took pity on it and gave it a few grains. The bird ate those and flew away. Then an old crow came and cawed loudly beside her. ‘I’m hungry!’ it seemed to say. So Varsha gave it some grains too, and it flew away after eating them. Then, the strangest thing happened. A big bird with shining golden wings came and perched next to her. It was clearly very old. The bird looked at the rice spread out on the mat. Then it spoke in a beautiful voice, ‘Will you give me some rice too?’ Varsha was very surprised. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, ‘but take only a few grains, or else my mother will scold me.’ The old bird hopped forward and, in an instant, gulped down all the rice! Varsha looked in dismay at the empty mat. What would her mother say? ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked the bird. It bent its head and said softly, ‘I’m sorry. I was hungry and could not stop myself. But don’t worry, come with me to my house in the big banyan tree and I’ll give you something which will make your mother forget her anger.

I hope that one day, I can again believe in you and sing a song for you while holding you in my arms near the terraced rice fields that glow golden in the late afternoon light.

The Philippines has the most beautiful rice plantations in the world-the Ifugao rice terraces. Hand carved thousands of years ago on mountains upon mountains in northern Luzon, this seemingly endless view of rice terraces is not only truly breathtaking, but also an awesome agricultural and engineering feat.

guests of the Palace, almost all of them Hollywood actors, European royalty, music greats, or the superrich and powerful. He found it all of only mild interest, although he did note that novelist Anne Rice’s picture was above and in a much more prominent position than Brigitte Bardot’s. The doctor entered a ballroom set up for a banquet and continued along with the throng out onto a terrace that overlooked Avenida Atlântica, the beach, and the ocean. Night had fallen. Across the street, under spotlights, men were playing beach volleyball. There