Sap And Secrets Quotes

There was romance in the unknown, but once a place had been discovered and cataloged and mapped, it was diminished, just another dusty fact in a book, sapped of mystery. So maybe it was better to leave a few spots on the map blank. To let the world keep a little of its magic, rather than forcing it to divulge every last secret. Maybe it was better, now and then, to wonder.

We bow to the inevitable. We’re not wheat, we’re buckwheat! When a storm comes along it flattens ripe wheat because it’s dry and can’t bend with the wind. But ripe buckwheat’s got sap in it and it bends. And when the wind has passed, it springs up almost as straight and strong as before. We aren’t a stiff-necked tribe. We’re mighty limber when a hard wind’s blowing, because we know it pays to be limber. When trouble comes we bow to the inevitable without any mouthing, and we work and we smile and we bide our time. And we play along with lesser folks and we take what we can get from them. And when we’re strong enough, we kick the folks whose necks we’ve climbed over. That, my child, is the secret of the survival.

Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy.

As long as you keep secrets and suppress information, you are fundamentally at war with yourself. Hiding your core feelings takes an enormous amount of energy, it saps your motivation to pursue worthwhile goals, and it leaves you feeling bored and shut down. Meanwhile, stress hormones keep flooding your body, leading to headaches, muscle aches, problems with your bowels or sexual functions—and irrational behaviors that may embarrass you and hurt the people around you. Only after you identify the source of these responses can you start using your feelings as signals of problems that require your urgent attention.

It is the privilege of the rich To waste the time of the poor To water with tears in secret A tree that grows in secret That bears fruit in secret That ripened falls to the ground in secret And manures the parent tree Oh the wicked tree of hatred and the secret The sap rising and the tears falling.

Just as I can't see a clear brook without at least stopping to dangle my feet in it, I can't see a meadow in May and simply pass by. There is nothing more seductive then such fragrant earth, the blossoms of clover swaying above it like a light foam, and the petal-bedecked branches of the fruit trees reaching upward, as if they wanted to rescue themselves from this tranquil sea. No, I have to turn from my path and immerse myself in this richness . . . When I turn my head, my cheek grazes the rough trunk of the apple tree next to me. How protectively it spreads its good branches over me. Without ceasing the sap rises from its roots, nuturing even the smallest of leaves. Do I hear, perhaps, a secret heartbeat? I press my face against its dark, warm bark and think to myself: homeland, and am so indescribably happy in this instant.

Well, this is the reason. We bow to the inevitable. We're not wheat, we're buckwheat! When a storm comes along it flattens ripe wheat because it's dry and can't bend with the wind. But ripe buckwheat's got sap in it and it bends. And when the wind has passed, it springs up almost as straight and strong as before. We aren't a stiff-necked tribe. We're mighty limber when a hard wind's blowing, because we know it pays to be limber. When trouble comes we bow to the inevitable without any mouthing, and we work and we smile and we bide our time. And we play along with lesser folks and we take what we can get from them. And when we're strong enough, we kick the folks whose necks we've climbed over. That, my child, is the secret of the survival.

I want, I said, to be a tree. She thought it was the drugs speaking. I was asleep before I could share the secret I once learned of a pomegranate orchard's prodigious growth: Old trees, dying, may burst after fruitless years into sudden blossom, a final exuberance of flower and sugar. Toward sun. At the last, even trees ache in their sap for pleasure.

Understanding’s not enough. Understanding’s from outside; merely a function of the mind. [. . .] To enter, that’s the secret. To become the bridge, to crawl into its sap, to sway with it, to rot over centuries as its heartwood rots. When you are the bridge you will know what the bridge knows. It takes time. A lifetime. And skill.

...how time packs new years over the old ones but how those old years are still in there, like the earliest, tightest rings centering a tree, the most hidden, enclosed in darkness and shielded from weather. But then a saw screams in and the tree topples and the circles are stricken by the sun and the sap glistens and the stump is laid open for the world to see.

I’m a fucking sap for this woman who’s wrapped in secrets, coated in broken armor and trip wires.

In vain may heroes fight and patriots rave if secret gold sap on from knave to knave.

You sap our self-confidence until we exist merely to court your approval (...) You keep us perpetually off balance, unpleasantly aware of our inferiority, and that's the whole secret of your skill and power.

La Margo sap el secret de marxar […]: marxar proporciona una sensació bona i pura només quan deixes alguna cosa important, alguna cosa que valores. Quan arrenques la vida de socarel. Però no ho pots fer fins que la teva vida no arreli.

There's not much to say about loneliness, for it's not a broad subject. Any child, alone in her room, can journey across its entire breadth, from border to border, in an hour. Though not broad, our subject is deep. Loneliness is deeper than the ocean. But here, too, there is no mystery. Our intrepid child is liable to fall quickly to the very bottom without even trying. And since the depths of loneliness cannot sustain human life, the child will swim to the surface again in short order, no worse for wear. Some of us, though, can bring breathing aids down with us for longer stays: imaginary friends, drugs and alcohol, mind-numbing entertainment, hobbies, ironclad routine, and pets. (Pets are some of the best enablers of loneliness, your own cuddlesome Murphy notwithstanding.) With the help of these aids, a poor sap can survive the airless depths of loneliness long enough to experience its true horror -- duration. Did you know, Myren Vole, that when presented with the same odor (even my own) for a duration of only several minutes, the olfactory nerves become habituated -- as my daughter used to say -- to it and cease transmitting its signal to the brain? Likewise, most pain loses its edge in time. Time heals all -- as they say. Even the loss of a loved one, perhaps life's most wrenching pain, is blunted in time. It recedes into the background where it can be borne with lesser pains. Not so our friend loneliness, which grows only more keen and insistent with each passing hour. Loneliness is as needle sharp now as it was an hour ago, or last week. But if loneliness is the wound, what's so secret about it? I submit to you, Myren Vole, that the most painful death of all is suffocation by loneliness. And by the time I started on my portrait of Jean, I was ten years into it (with another five to go). It is from that vantage point that I tell you that loneliness itself is the secret. It's a secret you cannot tell anyone. Why? Because to confess your loneliness is to confess your failure as a human being. To confess would only cause others to pity and avoid you, afraid that what you have is catching. Your condition is caused by a lack of human relationship, and yet to admit to it only drives your possible rescuers farther away (while attracting cats). So you attempt to hide your loneliness in public, to behave, in fact, as though you have too many friends already, and thus you hope to attract people who will unwittingly save you. But it never works that way. Your condition is written all over your face, in the hunch of your shoulders, in the hollowness of your laugh. You fool no one. Believe me in this; I've tried all the tricks of the lonely man.

It may even be that, as you look more closely, to recognize the hidden seed which, born of a secret union, grows into a luxuriant plant and spreads forth into a thousand tendrils, until a single blossom, swelling to maturity, absorbs all the life-sap and kills the seed itself. [...] I came to feel that what we call simply dream and imagination might represent the secret thread that runs through our lives and links its varied facets; and that the man who thinks that, because he has perceived this, he has acquired the power to break the thread and challenge that mysterious force which rules us, is to be given up as lost.

O Thebes! garland yourself in all the green there is — ivy green, olive green, fennel green, growing green, yearning green, wet sap green, new grape green, green of youth and green of branches, green of mint and green of marsh grass, green of tea leaves, oak and pine, green of washed needles and early rain, green of weeds and green of oceans, green of bottles, ferns and apples, green of dawn-soaked dew and slender green of roots, green fresh out of pools, green slipped under fools, green of the green fuse, green of the honeyed muse, green of the rough caress of ritual, green undaunted by reason or delirium, green of jealous joy, green of the secret holy violence of the thyrsos, green of the sacred iridescence of the dancе — and let all the land of Thebes dance! with Dionysos leading, to the mountains! to the mountains! where the mob of women waits! They’ve forsaken their shuttles, they’ve left their looms, they’ve dropped their aprons and taken up their stations on Dionysos’ mountain!

In summer the rich pond water was a vat of ripe simmering fruit, of varnish color: golden in the sun, holding like a rich syrup all the stock and plankton of the woods: loam-wealth, growth richness, leaf and sap goodness, the potlikker of the secret woods—all untouched and rare and gamy. There lolled fat, torpid, safe fish, bobbling languorously over in the thick piny syrup, bubbling their rubbery globules, like plump ripe fruit in their juices.

Solitary Swedish Houses" A mix-max of black spruce and smoking moonbeams. Here’s the croft lying low and not a sign of life. Till the morning dew murmurs and an old man opens – with a shaky hand – his window and lets out an owl. Further off, the new building stands steaming with the laundry butterfly fluttering at the corner in the middle of a dying wood where the mouldering reads through spectacles of sap the proceedings of the bark-drillers. Summer with flaxen-haired rain or one solitary thunder-cloud above a barking dog. The seed is kicking inside the earth. Agitated voices, faces fly in the telephone wires on stunted rapid wings across the moorland miles. The house on an island in the river brooding on its stony foundations. Perpetual smoke – they’re burning the forest’s secret papers. The rain wheels in the sky. The light coils in the river. Houses on the slope supervise the waterfall’s white oxen. Autumn with a gang of starlings holding dawn in check. The people move stiffly in the lamplight’s theatre. Let them feel without alarm the camouflaged wings and God’s energy coiled up in the dark.

Giant hogweed is considered extremely dangerous because its sap, in combination with ultraviolet light, can burn human skin. Every year, millions are spent digging up plants and destroying them, without any great success. However, hogweed can spread only because the original forested meadows along the banks of rivers and streams no longer exist. If these forests were to return, it would be so dark under the forest canopy that hogweed would disappear. The same goes for Himalayan balsam and Japanese knotweed, which also grow on the riverbanks in the absence of the forests. Trees could solve the problem if people trying to improve things would only allow them to take over.

The devastation of the lumberjacks appeared more atrocious at this time of year when everything is getting ready to come back to life. In the warm air some twigs were already growing, some buds were opening, and each branch that had been chopped was crying with sap. I advanced slowly, not feeling so sad because I was exalted by the pain of the countryside, feeling a bit gray perhaps by the strong vegetal odor that the dying trees and the earth exhaled. I was barely sensitive to the contrast of these dead trees with the renewal of springtime. In this state the park was more open to receive light which bathed and gilded both what was dead and what was alive. However, from far away the tragic song of the axes filled the air with a funeral solemnity, secretly

In the heart of the house lay a garden. In the heart of the garden stood a tree. In the heart of the tree lived an old man who wore the shape of a red-haired boy with cracker-nut eyes that seemed as bright as salmon tails glinting up the water. His was a riddling wisdom, older by far than the ancient oak that housed his body. The green sap was his blood, and leaves grew in his hair. In the winter, he slept. In the spring, the moon harped a windsong against his antler tines as the oak's boughs stretched its green buds awake. In the summer, the air was thick with the droning of bees and the scent of wildflowers that grew in stormy profusion where the fat brown bole became root. And in the autumn, when the tree loosed its bounty to the ground below, there were hazelnuts lying in among the acorns. The secrets of a Green Man.

He insisted on clearing the table, and again devoted himself to his game of patience: piecing together the map of Paris, the bits of which he’d stuffed into the pocket of his raincoat, folded up any old how. I helped him. Then he asked me, straight out, ‘What would you say was the true centre of Paris?’ I was taken aback, wrong-footed. I thought this knowledge was part of a whole body of very rarefied and secret lore. Playing for time, I said, ‘The starting point of France’s roads . . . the brass plate on the parvis of Notre-Dame.’ He gave me a withering look. ‘Do you take for me a sap?’ The centre of Paris, a spiral with four centres, each completely self-contained, independent of the other three. But you don’t reveal this to just anybody. I suppose - I hope - it was in complete good faith that Alexandre Arnoux mentioned the lamp behind the apse of St-Germain-l’Auxerrois. I wouldn’t have created that precedent. My turn now to let the children play with the lock. ‘The centre, as you must be thinking of it, is the well of St-Julien-le-Pauvre. The “Well of Truth” as it’s been known since the eleventh century.’ He was delighted. I’d delivered. He said, ‘You know, you and I could do great things together. It’s a pity I’m already “beyond redemption”, even at this very moment.’ His unhibited display of brotherly affection was of childlike spontaneity. But he was still pursuing his line of thought: he dashed out to the nearby stationery shop and came back with a little basic pair of compasses made of tin. ‘Look. The Vieux-Chene, the Well. The Well, the Arbre-a-Liege On either side of the Seine, adhering closely to the line he’d drawn, the age-old tavern signs were at pretty much the same distance from the magic well. ‘Well, now, you see, it’s always been the case that whenever something bad happens at the Vieux-Chene, a month later — a lunar month, that is, just twenty-eight days — the same thing happens at old La Frite’s place, but less serious. A kind of repeat performance. An echo Then he listed, and pointed out on the map, the most notable of those key sites whose power he or his friends had experienced. In conclusion he said, ‘I’m the biggest swindler there is, I’m prepared to be swindled myself, that’s fair enough. But not just anywhere. There are places where, if you lie, or think ill, it’s Paris you disrespect. And that upsets me. That’s when I lose my cool: I hit back. It’s as if that’s what I was there for.

L'amor És allò que embruixa vora el cor, enroscat com una serp petita, o el colom que es passa tot el dia parrupant a la finestra blanca; és allò que brillarà en el gebre, s’intueix en un so de viola... Tanmateix en secret i infal·lible ens aparta del goig i la calma. I com sap sanglotar amb dolça veu en el prec d’un violí que enyora! I és terrible endevinar-lo en un nou somriure encara per conèixer.

Què fas en una piscina quan no saps nedar? Aprendre'n. Suposo que aquesta és la resposta.

Jerusalem Artichoke (Helianthus tuberosus) In Italy these are called girasole, meaning “turn with the sun.” They really are a type of sunflower and should not be confused with the globe artichoke, which is an entirely different plant. Jerusalem artichokes, a native Amerian plant, were known to and used by the Indians. They are a good companion to corn. The tuber is the edible portion, for this sunflower has its surprise at the bottom, the flowers being attractive but not large. The principal food content of the Jerusalem artichoke is inulin, a tasteless, white polysaccharide dissolved in the sap of the roots, which can be converted into levulose sugar. This is of special interest to diabetics, for levulose is highly nutritious and the sweetest of all known natural sugars. Levulose also occurs in most fruits, in the company of dextrose, which diabetics must avoid, but in the Jerusalem artichoke it is present alone. The artichokes are high in food value and rich in vitamins. They may be cooked or eaten raw in salads.

You’re a sap,” I grumbled. “It was honest. Just you and me. No lies. No secrets. No denial. It was like…” His voice trailed off, but the end of the sentence came to me easily. “We saw each other.” “We saw each other,” he agreed. “And that… changed things. Feeling that. It didn’t even matter that everything was about to get so damned complicated.

the secret was not “asking how I am to get the sap out of the vine into myself, but remembering that Jesus is the vine. . . . Not seeking for faith to bring holiness but rejoicing in the fact of perfect holiness, in Christ. . . . Inseparably one with Him, this holiness is ours. His resources are mine, for He is mine. All this springs from the believer’s oneness with Christ.

On Being Human" Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence Behold the Forms of nature. They discern Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities Which mortals lack or indirectly learn. Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying, Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear, High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal Huge Principles appear. The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap; But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance Of sun from shadow where the trees begin, The blessed cool at every pore caressing us -An angel has no skin. They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it Drink the whole summer down into the breast. The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest. The tremor on the rippled pool of memory That from each smell in widening circles goes, The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it? An angel has no nose. The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes On death, and why, they utterly know; but not The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries. The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves, Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges. —An angel has no nerves. Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see; Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be. Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior, This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares With living men some secrets in a privacy Forever ours, not theirs.

But if you could for a time wipe out all the poets and all their poetry from the world, then you would soon discover, by their very absence, where the men of action got their energy from, and who really supplied the life-sap to their harvest-field. It is not those who have plunged deep down into the Pundit's Ocean of Renunciation, nor those who are always clinging to their possessions; it is not those who have become adepts in turning out quantities of work, nor those who are ever telling the dry beads of duty,--it is not these who win at last. But it is those who love, because they live. These truly win, for they truly surrender. They accept pain with all their strength and with all their strength they remove pain. It is they who create, because they know the secret of true joy, which is the secret of detachment.

In both cases, it’s a meager living. But there is an important difference. Under slavery, blacks had to work; today’s blacks don’t have to work to inhabit the progressive plantation. In fact, they must not work, because if they become self-reliant, then the progressives have no future use for them. Consequently, many young blacks have productivity, creativity, even human dignity sapped out of them. This is the core of today’s progressive racism.

And maybe it was childish, this old urge to explore for exploring's sake. There was romance in the unknown, but once a place had been discovered and cataloged and mapped, it was diminished, just another dusty fact in a book, sapped of mystery. So maybe it was better to leave a few spots on the map blank. To let the world keep a little of its magic, rather than forcing it to divulge every last secret. Maybe it was better, now and then, to wonder.

I am like a tree that looks dead to the world, but when you climb to the very top, you find bright green limbs sucking sap one hundred feet from the ground. And you discover the tree is very much alive, and is keeping its secret of life from the world.

When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay To change your day of youth to sullied night; And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

You have chosen again and again to disrespect the other spirits, and so I have no choice but to discipline you, Orenna. From hence onward, you will only grow in dry, heartsick ground where the water may deny you, and the wind can make you bend to its might. In order to bloom, you will have to give your life source; you will have to cut your finger on a thorn, and let your golden ichor flow like sap, down to the ground. And last of all, the mortal kind of the isle will learn your secrets by consuming your petals. This is your punishment, which may last as short as a day should you truly repent, or an eternity should your heart turn hard and cold.

As long as you keep secrets and suppress information, you are fundamentally at war with yourself. Hiding your core feelings takes an enormous amount of energy, it saps your motivation to pursue worthwhile goals, and it leaves you feeling bored and shut down.

It’s still early, and there’s a stillness to the air that reminds Juniper of walking the mountainside just before dawn, in that silent second after the night-creatures have bedded down but before the morning-birds have started up. It feels secret, stolen out of time, like you might see the ragged point of a witch’s hat or the gleam of dragon-scales in the shadows. Juniper closes her eyes and pretends the wood-pulp pages around her are wet and alive, pumping with sap instead of ink.

There are specialized sap-sucking pests for every tree: firs (balsam twig aphid), spruce (green spruce aphid), oaks (oak leaf phylloxera), and beeches. There's sucking and excreting going on everywhere.

The Modus Operandi of THE REGULUS CONCLAVE as spelled out in 1853! “We hold such and such opinions upon one point only; and that one point is, mutual interest, and under that; 1st, that we can govern this nation; 2d, that to govern it, we must, subvert its institutions; and, 3d, subvert them we will! It is our interest; this is our only bond. Capital must have expansion. This hybrid republicanism saps the power of our great agent by its obstinate competition. We must demoralize the republic. We must make public virtue a by-word and a mockery, and private infamy to be honor. Beginning with the people, through our agents, we shall corrupt the State. “We must pamper superstition, and pension energetic fanaticism—as on ’Change we degrade commercial honor, and make success the idol. We may fairly and reasonably calculate, that within a succeeding generation, even our theoretical schemes of republican subversion may be accomplished, and upon its ruins be erected that noble Oligarchy of caste and wealth for which we all conspire, as affording the only true protection to capital. “Beside these general views, we may in a thousand other ways apply our combined capital to immediate advantage. We may buy up, through our agents, claims upon litigated estates, upon confiscated bonds, mortgages upon embarrassed property, land-claims, Government contracts, that have fallen into weak hands, and all those floating operations, constantly within hail, in which ready-money is eagerly grasped as the equivalent for enormous prospective gains. “In addition, through our monopoly of the manufacturing interest, by a rigorous and impartial system of discipline, we shall soon be able to fill the masses of operators and producers with such distrust of each other, and fear of us, as to disintegrate their radical combinations, and bring them to our feet. Governing on ’Change, we rule in politics; governing in politics, we are the despots in trade; ruling in trade, we subjugate production; production conquered, we domineer over labor. This is the common-sense view of our interests—of the interests of capital, which we represent. In the promotion of this object, we appoint and pension our secret agents, who are everywhere on the lookout for our interests. We arrange correspondence, in cipher, throughout the civilized world; we pension our editors and our reporters; we bribe our legislators, and, last of all, we establish and pay our secret police, local, and travelling, whose business it is, not alone to report to us the conduct of agents already employed, but to find and report to us others, who may be useful in such capacity. “We punish treachery by death!” (from YIEGER'S CABINET or SPIRITUAL VAMPIRISM, published 1853)

Life coaching is a way of life, not just another monotonous job that eventually saps one’s energy. It’s a profession that makes people feel like they have a lot to contribute to the world they’re living in. A greater understanding of the concept is needed in order to apply it, though.

The Lips I Kissed Butterflies rise from the mouth of the dead like planes over Dulles or O’Hare, masking her unspeakable void in a procession of iridescent blips across the control tower monitor. Can these abandoned doors be the lips I kissed -- lips I once explored like an underground river, a maze reaching to the core of her secret fire? Her heart, Gilgamesh rain upon the Tigris plains, beats no more but sits in buttoned devotion, parent proud to her bountiful yield. The sapped earth, now embalmed, rests until the next sowing of the dead.

Plants, like other living beings, don’t want to be eaten. Even if they can’t run away from their predators, they are far from helpless. Some acacias draft ants to fight their battles. They secrete sweet-tasting sap to encourage the insects to take up residence in their branches. Should a herbivore attack the tree, the bite-happy creatures mount a formidable defence and chase the animal away.

Roxannah plucked an early-blooming flower, white with the faintest tinge of pink and a red pillar at the center, though most of the buds would not open for another month. "What do you think?" Adin, who had been examining a thick stalk and some of the broad leaves for damage, held up his trowel. "Perfect. I don't know how you even found these plants all the way out here." He knelt and started to dig. "When we were children in Elephantine, my mother used to make sweets with the sap of the marsh mallow. It's an Egyptian delicacy. In ancient times, it was reserved for the pharaohs. Thankfully, these days the rest of us can enjoy it too." Intrigued, Roxannah dropped down next to him. "Cook is always telling us to discover new recipes. How did your mother make it?" He looked up from his digging. "As I mentioned earlier, my expertise lies more in the area of consumption than production." "A talent every good cook appreciates." He shifted his trowel to get around a stubborn root. "I do remember the ingredients since I helped to gather them. Honey, nuts, and mallow sap. Simple, eh?" "I can experiment with that." She broke off a narrow stalk and gingerly put a dollop of the sap on her tongue. "Very sticky." "I think that's the secret. The sap pulls everything together into a chewy treat.

-Què deia Hemingway de la bona escriptura? -Que ningú en sap el secret. -M’ho he après, soc una empollona, ningú que em conegui em reconeixeria-. Però ell deia que sí que el sabia, que el secret d’un bon text és que és poesia escrita en prosa… i que és la feina més difícil del món.

I'm standing so close I can smell him, something familiar in the warmth of his skin--- the faintest whiff of his cologne with traces of warm amber and woody, resinous cedar and an underlying herbaceous, peppery note of olive oil that seems to be a part of his essence. I lean closer, my nose brushing his skin, and he pulls back enough to look at me incredulously. "Are you sniffing me?" I giggle, half-embarrassed at being caught out. "Sorry, you smell delicious," I tell him a little flirtatiously. "Oh, do I?" He watches me, intrigued. "What do I smell like?" "Like warm honey and the sticky sap of a cedar tree.

Already

And maybe it was childish, this old urge to explore for exploring’s sake. There was romance in the unknown, but once a place had been discovered and cataloged and mapped, it was diminished, just another dusty fact in a book, sapped of mystery. So maybe it was better to leave a few spots on the map blank. To let the world keep a little of its magic, rather than forcing it to divulge every last secret.

You’ve got to choose joy. It’s not just out there to stumble onto. You’ve got to actively seek it.