Ruskin Bond Quotes

and when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful.

To be able to laugh and to be merciful are the only things that make man better than the beast

It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them. There is no escape.

People often ask me why my style is so simple. It is, in fact, deceptively simple, for no two sentences are alike. It is clarity that I am striving to attain, not simplicity. Of course, some people want literature to be difficult and there are writers who like to make their readers toil and sweat. They hope to be taken more seriously that way. I have always tried to achieve a prose that is easy and conversational. And those who think this is simple should try it for themselves.

Happiness is a mysterious thing, to be found somewhere between too little and too much.

All glory comes from daring to begin.

Book readers are special people, and they will always turn to books as the ultimate pleasure. Those who do not read are the unfortunate ones. There's nothing wrong with them; but they are missing out on one of life's compensations and rewards. A great book is a friend that never lets you down. You can return to it again and again and the joy first derived from it will still be there.

Red roses for young lovers. French beans for longstanding relationships

Hapiness is as exclusive as a butterfly, and you must never pursue it. If you stay very still, it may come and settle on your hand. But only briefly. Savour those moments, for they will not come in your way very often.

The past is always with us, for it feeds the present.

How evanescent those loves and friendships seem at this distance in time…We move on, make new attachments. We grow old. But sometimes, we hanker for old friendships, the old loves. Sometimes I wish I was young again. Or that I could travel back in time and pick up the threads. Absent so long, I may have stopped loving you, friends; but I will never stop loving the Day I loved you.

On books and friends I spend my money; For stones and bricks I haven't any.

It's courage, not luck, that takes us through to the end of the road.

I am still on my zigzag way, pursuing the diagonal between reason and heart.

Normally writers do not talk much,because they are saving their conversations for the readers of their book- those invisible listeners with whom we wish to strike a sympathetic chord.

But the trees seemed to know me. They whispered among themselves and beckoned me nearer. And looking around, I noticed the other small trees and wild plants and grasses had sprung up under the protection of the trees we had placed there. The trees had multiplied! They were moving. In one small corner of the world, Grandfather's dream was coming true and the trees were moving again.

And when all the wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful.

...for everytime I see the sky I'm aware of belonging to the universe than to just one corner of the earth.

I don't want to rot like mangoes at the end of the season, or burnout like the sun at the and of the day. I cannot live like the gardener, the cook and water-carrier, doing the same task everyday of my life... I want to be either somebody or nobody. I don't want to be anybody.

The world keeps on changing, but there is always something, somewhere, that remains the same.

Yes, I'd love to have a garden of my own--spacious, and full of everything that is fragrant and flowering. But if I don't succeed, never mind--I've still got the dream.

love is undying,of that I feel certain.I mean deep,abiding,cherishing love.The love that gives protection even as you,my guardian angel,gave me protection long after you had gone-and continue to give this very day... A love beyond Death-a love that makes Life alive!

Yesterday, I was sad, tomorrow i may be sad again, but today i know that i am happy. I want to live on and on, delighting like a pagan in all that is physical; and i know that this one lifetime, however long, cannot satisfy my heart.

live close to nature and you'll never feel lonely. Don't drive those sparrows out of your veranda; they won't hack into your computer.

Hapiness is as exclusive as a butterfly, and you must never pursue it. If you stay very still, it may come and settle on your hand. But only briefly. Savour those moments, for they will not come in your way very often.”— Ruskin Bond

Hinduism comes closest to being a nature religion. Rivers, rocks, trees, plants, animals, and birds all play their part, both in mythology and everyday worship. This harmony is most evident in remote places like this, and I hope it does not loose its unique character in the ruthless urban advance.

I have never been a fast walker, or a conqueror of mountain peaks, but I can plod along for miles. And that's what I've been doing all my life—plodding along, singing my song, telling my tales in my own unhurried way. I have lived life at my own gentle pace, and if as a result I have failed to get to the top of the mountain (or of anything else), it doesn't matter, the long walk has brought its own sweet rewards; buttercups and butterflies along the way.   Ruskin Bond Landour, March 2005  

Some of us are born sensitive. And if, on top of that, we are pulled about in different directions (both emotionally and physically), we might just end up becoming writers. No, we don't become writers in schools of creative writing. We become writers before we learn to write. The rest is simply learning how to put it all together.

You don’t have to lie if you know how to withhold the truth.

The best kind of walk, and this applies to the plains as well as to the hills, is the one in which you have no particular destination when you set out.

She was always ready with her smile, and would willingly have lent it to anyone who was feeling unhappy.

Happiness is an elusive state of mind not to be gained by clumsy pursuit.It is given to those who do not sue for it:to be unconcerned about a desired good is probably the only way to possess it.

Cold weather doesn’t care if your coat is old or new.

One sure way to lose the world and everything in it, is to try grasping it.

Wretched game, cricket, keeping romantic youths out in the sun when they should be indoors, applying balm to the foreheads of feverish young maidens.

if you have secrets, you must have a friend to share them with,

Everyone says she’s mad.’ ‘How do they know?’ I asked. ‘Because she’s different from other people, I suppose.’ ‘Is that being mad?’ ‘No. Not really, I suppose madness is not seeing things as others see them.

For the most time I've followed instinct rather than intelligence, and this has resulted in a modicum of happiness.

Until death comes, all is life.

The pure, the bright, the beautiful, That stirred our hearts in youth, The impulse to a wordless prayer, The dreams of love and truth; The longings after something lost, The spirit’s yearning cry, The striving after better hopes … These things can never die.

When we are young, we can put up with a great deal of discomfort in order to follow a dream. If, after thirty-five years, I’m still doing my own thing, it’s because I haven’t forgotten the dream. Let no man take your dream away. It will sustain you to the end.

But he could not return; he was afraid of what lay ahead, he dreaded the unknown, but it was easier to walk forwards than backwards.

Death moves about at random, without discriminating between the innocent and the evil, the poor and the rich. The only difference is that the poor usually handle it better.

Nothing is insignificant; nothing is without consequence in the intricate web of life.  

A tiger is a tiger; he has his dignity to preserve even though he isn't aware of it!

The first condition of happiness is that a man must find joy in his work. Unless the work brings joy, the tedium of an aimless life can be soul-destroying. Something

Enough for me that you are beautiful: Beauty possessed diminishes. Better a dream of love Than love’s dream broken; Better a look exchanged Than love’s word spoken. Enough for me that you walk past, A firefly flashing in the dark.

The other day a young Internet surfer asked me why I preferred using a pencil instead of a computer. The principal reason, I told him, was that I liked chewing on the end of my pencil. A nasty habit, but it helps me concentrate. And I find it extremely difficult to chew on a computer.

I feel drawn to little temples on lonely hilltops. With the mist swirling round them, and the wind humming in the stunted pines, they absorb some of the magic and mystery of their surroundings and transmit it to the questing pilgrim.

Live close to nature and your spirit will not be easily broken, for you learn something of patience and resilience. You will not grow restless, and you will never feel lonely.

What is nostalgia, after all, but an attempt to preserve that which was good in the past?

I have come to believe that the best kind of walk, or journey, is the one in which you have no particular destination when you set out.

Money often costs too much.’ —Ralph Waldo Emerson

It’s easy to rob a greedy man, because he deserves to be robbed; it’s easy to rob a rich man, because he can afford to be robbed; but it’s difficult to rob a poor man, even one who really doesn’t care if he’s robbed

And when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful.

Well, it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them.

Well, we are equals, in our fear as in our loneliness.

It wouldn't be much fun living on a planet where grass could not grow.

The sunlight, penetrating the gaps in the tall trees, plays chess on the gravestones, shifting slowly and thoughtfully across the worn old stones. The wind, like a hundred violins, plays perpetually in the topmost branches of the deodars.

On the open road there are no strangers. You share the same sky, the same mountain, the same sunshine and shade. On the open road we are all brothers. The

She walked home through the darkening glade, singing of the stars; and the trees stood still and listened to her, and the mountains were glad.

All I wanted was a quiet life, a writing pad, books to read, flowers to gaze upon, and sometimes a little love, a little kiss…

And until death comes, all is life.

The rain swirls over the trees and roofs of the town, and the parched earth soaks it up, exuding a fragrance that comes only once in a year, the fragrance of quenched earth, the most exhilarating of all smells.

But men are cutting down the trees without replacing them. For every tree that’s felled, we must plant two. Otherwise, one day there’ll be no forests at all, and the world will become one great desert.

Well, it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them. They have too much to take in, I suppose. Whereas people who cannot see (or see very little) have to take in only the essentials, whatever registers most tellingly on their remaining senses.

I believe that mountains do affect one's personality, if one can remain among them long enough; and if Sunil had grown up in the hills instead of in a refugee township, I have no doubt he would have been a completely different person.

As I walked home last night I saw a lone fox dancing In the cold moonlight. I stood and watched. Then Took the low road, knowing The night was his by right. Sometimes, when words ring true, I'm like a lone fox dancing In the morning dew.

life had since become fast and cruel and unreflective, and people were too busy counting their gains to bother about the idols of their youth.

That man is strongest who stands alone!

On the open road we are all brothers.

We must love someone. We must keep loving, all our days, Someone, anyone, anywhere Outside our selves; For even the sarus crane Will grieve over its lost companion, And the seal its mate. Somewhere in life There must be someone To take your hand And share the torrid day. Without the touch of love There is no life, and we must fade away.

And when the rains were over and it was October and the birds were in song again, I could lie in the sun on sweet-smelling grass and gaze up through a pattern of oak leaves into a blind-blue heaven. And I would thank my God for leaves and grass and the smell of things, the smell of mint and myrtle and bruised clover, and the touch of things, the touch of grass and air and sky, the touch of the sky's blueness.

I think I have learnt something of the value of stillness. I don’t fret so much; I laugh at myself more often; I don’t laugh at others. I live life at my own pace. Like a banyan tree. Is this wisdom, or is it just old age?

Out of the city and over the hill, Into the spaces where Time stands still, Under the tall trees, touching old wood, Taking the way where warriors once stood; Crossing the little bridge, losing my way, But finding a friendly place where I can stay. Those were the days, friend, when we were strong And strode down the road to an old marching song When the dew on the grass was fresh every morn, And we woke to the call of the ring-dove at dawn. The years have gone by, and sometimes I falter, But still I set out for a stroll or a saunter, For the wind is as fresh as it was in my youth, And the peach and the pear, still the sweetest of fruit, So cast away care and come roaming with me, Where the grass is still green and the air is still free.

A Quiet Mind Lord, give me a quiet mind, That I might listen; A gentle tone of voice, That I might comfort others; A sound and healthy body, That I might share In the joy of walking And leaping and running; And a good sense of direction So I might know just where I’m going!

strange, how lovers cannot bear that the world should not know their love

To the inhabitants of the pond, the pond was the world; and to the inhabitants of the world, the world was but a muddy pond.

And when all the wars are done,' I said, 'a butterfly will still be beautiful.

There is a distinction to be made between aloneness and loneliness.

with every lie we surrender a little of our peace of mind,

I never cease to wonder at the tenacity of water - its ability to make its way through various strata of rock,zigzagging,back-tracking, finding space, cunningly discovering faults and fissures in the mountain, and sometimes traveling underground for great distances before emerging into the open. Of course, there's no stopping water. For no matter how tiny that little tickle, it has to go somewhere.

I knew I was free; that I had always been free; held back only by my own weakness, lacking impulse and the imagination to break away from an existence that had become habitual for years.

Unlike the adults, the children didn’t have to pretend. They were full of praise for the umbrella. It was so light, so pretty, so bright a blue! And it was just the right size for Binya. They knew that if they said nice things about the umbrella, Binya would smile and give it to them to hold for a little while—just a very little while! Soon

We said nothing for some time but we couldn’t have been more eloquent.

It's fine to dream, provided we can deal with the reality when we wake up

Borrowed books and umbrellas are seldom returned

Those who do not read are the unfortunate ones. There’s nothing wrong with them, but they are missing out on one of life’s compensations and rewards.

Men may sometimes be rather similar, but no two women are ever alike.

Sometimes the weak will last for years, while the strong will suddenly collapse and die.

The tree made it's first move, the first overture of friendship. It allowed a leaf to fall.

It isn’t time that’s passing by, it is you and I. It

he tiger is the very soul of India,&when the last tiger has gone,so will the soul of the country.

Rain‬. It washes the leaves, Gives new life to grass, Draws out the scent of the earth

You do not retreat from a road-block; you make your way around it, or look for another route to where you are going. And you learn to zigzag ... Take a different route, albeit a longer one.

Must the interest of life wane for us all as the progress of knowledge curtails the playground of imagination? No doubt it must in some measure, but there is another cause. I believe that in these days we have too many occupations, too many interests; we know too many things, and, if you will, have too many advantages and facilities. Our faculty of taking an interest is dissipated and frittered away.

When the earth gave birth to this tree, There came no sound: A green shoot thrust In silence from the ground. Our births don’t come so quiet— Most lives run riot— But the bud opens silently, And flower gives way to fruit. So must we search For the stillness within the tree, The silence within the root.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep’, it is good to have someone to lean on from time to time, and in that respect this agnostic has been blessed by the gods. I still value my solitude, but it is also nice to have someone tucking me into bed at night.

We Must Love Someone We Must Love Someone If we are to justify Our presence on this earth. We must keep loving all our days, Someone, anyone, anywhere Outside our selves; For even the sarus crane Will grieve over its lost companion, And the seal its mate. Somewhere in life There must be someone To take your hand And share the torrid day. Without the touch of love There is no life, and we must fade away.

Our insect musicians are roused to their greatest activity during the monsoons. At dusk the air seems to tinkle and murmur to their music. To the shrilling of the grasshoppers is added the staccato notes of the crickets, while in the grass and on the trees myriads of lesser artistes are producing a variety of sounds. As musicians, the cicadas are in a class of their own. Throughout the monsoons their screaming chorus rings through the forest. A shower, far from dampening their ardour, only rouses them to a deafening crescendo of effort. As with most insect musicians, the males do the performing, the females remain silent. This moved one chauvinistic Greek poet to exclaim: ‘Happy the cicadas, for they have voiceless wives!’ To which I would respond by saying, ‘Pity the female cicadas, for they have singing husbands!’ Probably the most familiar and homely of insect singers are the crickets. I won’t attempt to go into detail on how the cricket produces its music, except to say that its louder notes are produced by a rapid vibration of the wings, the right wing usually working over the left, the edge of one acting on the file of the other to produce a shrill, long-sustained note, like a violinist gone mad. Cicadas, on the other hand, use their abdominal muscles to produce their sound.