Save The Rainforest Quotes

You know I don’t like giving speeches,” Glory said, “so I’ll just say this. We’re going to save our fellow RainWings, and we’re going to make this rainforest safe, and we’re going to do it like real RainWings. And by the three moons, try not to talk or sneeze or fall asleep in the tunnel on the way there, all right?

Why save the rainforest, the whales, or the world when you can devote your time to saving syllables?

All lives matter” is an empty retort designed to shut down conversations about black people and the issues they face. I think the “all lives matter” folks know that—they just refuse to admit it. Comeback: “It’s okay for a movement to be focused on a specific group or cause. ‘Save the rainforest’ doesn’t mean ‘Fuck all the other trees.

At first I thought I was fighting to save rubber trees, then I thought I was fighting to save the Amazon rainforest. Now I realize I am fighting for humanity.

I'm sorry but I don't need saving. Maybe pour all that energy into a worthy cause, like saving the whales, or the Rainforest. I hear trees are being cut down at an alarming rate.

And so fate—if you can call it that—changed course over the rainforest canopy, and kindnesses and miracles poured like quenching rain after a drought. Such is the nature of happy endings.

I saw it myself. An endless succession of mongrels and malingerers, the laziest dropouts who fancied themselves explorers. He made his policy clear: he was not responsible for their food, their shelter, their safety, or their health. He didn't waste his time discouraging them because frankly there was no discouragement they could not withstand. All of the energy they could have put into their intelligence they had used to develop their tenacity. But what I quickly learned was that their tenacity was for going, not for staying. Once they were out on the trail they fell like flies. Some took a day, two days, others were gone in a matter of hours, and Dr. Rapp never stopped for them. He remained beautifully consistent: he was to work and he would continue to work. He would not ferry back the weak and the lame. They had chosen to get themselves in and they would simply have to figure the means to get themselves out. People were quick to accept these terms until they themselves were weak. Then they changed their tune entirely, then they said Dr. Rapp was heartless. They couldn't slander him as a scientist but they said no end of scurrilous things about him as a man. He hadn't rescued them! He hadn't been their father and mother! I will tell you, none of that troubled his sleep. If he had made them his responsibility, either by dissuading them from their ambitions or by bailing them out of their folly, the greatest botanist of our time would have been reduced to a babysitter. It would have been an incalculable blow to science, all in the name of saving the stupid.

to the Pygmy it is one of the most important differences between the people of the forest and the people of the village that the latter do not know “how to walk”. Walking, to the Pygmy, means being able to run swiftly and silently, without slipping, tripping, or falling. Every day he depends for his food on his ability to “walk,” and more than once his life will be saved by the same ability, when he has to run from a charging buffalo or creep away unnoticed from a sleeping leopard.

Miss Moorthy was aware that her interested concern in everybody’s well-being might be seen by the uncharitable as busybodyness. To Miss Moorthy it was simply a matter of setting things right starting from where she was. She could not single-handedly save the Amazonian rainforests but she could, and did, stop students from carving their names on trees or trampling on plants. It was all the same thing on a different scale, wasn’t it?

Saving for a rainy day is tough when you live in a rainforest.

The facial stills that Mario lap-dissolves between are of Johnny Gentle, Famous Crooner, founding standard-bearer of the seminal new ‘Clean U.S. Party,’ the strange-seeming but politically prescient annular agnation of ultra-right jingoist hunt-deer-with-automatic-weapons types and far-left macrobiotic Save-the-Ozone, -Rain-Forests, -Whales, -Spotted-Owl-and-High-pH-Waterways ponytailed granola-crunchers, a surreal union of both Rush L.– and Hillary R.C.–disillusioned fringes that drew mainstream-media guffaws at their first Convention (held in sterile venue), the seemingly LaRoucheishly marginal party whose first platform’s plank had been Let’s Shoot Our Wastes Into Space, 150 C.U.S.P. a kind of post-Perot national joke for three years, until—white-gloved finger on the pulse of an increasingly asthmatic and sunscreen-slathered and pissed-off American electorate—the C.U.S.P. suddenly swept to quadrennial victory in an angry reactionary voter-spasm that made the U.W.S.A. and LaRouchers and Libertarians chew their hands in envy as the Dems and G.O.P.s stood on either side watching dumbly, like doubles partners who each think the other’s surely got it, the two established mainstream parties split open along tired philosophical lines in a dark time when all landfills got full and all grapes were raisins and sometimes in some places the falling rain clunked instead of splatted, and also, recall, a post-Soviet and -Jihad era when—somehow even worse—there was no real Foreign Menace of any real unified potency to hate and fear, and the U.S. sort of turned on itself and its own philosophical fatigue and hideous redolent wastes with a spasm of panicked rage that in retrospect seems possible only in a time of geopolitical supremacy and consequent silence, the loss of any external Menace to hate and fear.

dropped. Queen Glory, Deathbringer, and Anemone all flew after him. Turtle took a step back into the pavilion. His heart was beating anxiously. What if his spell didn’t work, and Kinkajou was as bewitched by Darkstalker as anyone else? Or what if Darkstalker wasn’t using a spell after all, and everyone else genuinely liked him, and Turtle was just wrong? Kinkajou ducked back inside, catching a delicate lavender orchid on one of her frills, and sauntered over to him. “So, that dragon’s totally evil,” she said. “You think so? You really do?” said Turtle. He felt as though he could collapse right here and nap for three days. He wasn’t imagining things. And he wasn’t alone anymore. “He’s acting like the boss of Anemone, he’s making creepy unnecessary un-RainWing-y things with his magic, and he’s clearly trying to manipulate everyone with stuff like ‘I’ll save you from assassins!’ and ‘oh, I was going to heal her myself, actually.’ The good news is, Queen Glory and Deathbringer will see right through him. They’re probably planning some clever way to drive him out of the rainforest right now.” “Um,” said Turtle. “Unfortunately, they’re not. They like him — or they think they do. See, I think he’s using his magic on everyone. I don’t know the details of the spell, but it seems like everyone who meets him or talks to him ends up thinking he’s perfectly nice, harmless, and trustworthy.” “Everyone?” said Kinkajou. “Even Winter,” said Turtle. “Winter worst of all.

I married Isadora on a sweet breezy day in April. The story isn't how i married Isadora, it's how I lost her. She radiated pure-quirky-pretty, quick stepping, nose freckled, Angel believing, save the rainforest, ethnic exotica.

Not only was he getting a new partner but he was getting an over-achieving new partner, a liberal, over-achieving new partner. He imagined him pulling up in his hybrid vehicle, his Starbuck’s save-the-rainforest bottled water and soy latte, no doubt anxiously waiting to discuss the plight of the polar bears while recycling his gum wrappers.

One-third of the Earth’s land surface is now dedicated to food production – a quarter of this for crops, three-quarters for grazing animals – and farming’s expansion into the wild is continuing (nearly 4 million hectares of tropical rainforest are lost each year).

Maria said simply, “She’s dying. And she can save herself – without hurting anyone. Without stealing food from the mouths of the next generation, or whatever it is she thinks makes being scanned such a crime. Do you really think she – honestly – doesn’t want to stay alive? Or wouldn’t want to, if she could think it through clearly, without all the guilt and moralizing bullshit her generation saddled her with?” Durham wasn’t taking sides. “I don’t know her, I can’t answer that.” “She was a child of the nineties. Her kindergarten teachers probably told her that the pinnacle of her existence would be fertilizing a rainforest when she died.” Maria thought it over. “And the beauty of it is … she can still do that. Scan her, put her through a meat grinder … scatter the results over the Daintree.

You know I don’t like giving speeches,” Glory said, “so I’ll just say this. We’re going to save our fellow RainWings, and we’re going to make this rainforest safe, and we’re going to do it like real RainWings. And by the three moons, try not to

Between the disappearance of the river and its re-emegence is like a desert river valley, clearly carved by water, with rounded stones in the bottom and steep sides, but no water running. Yet here there are elm trees, one of which is huge, with a magnificent trunk festooned with mosses, lichens, polypody ferns and fungi, a rich tapestry of rainforest life. Uniquely, it grows horizontally out of the rock, many metres up the sheer wall of the ravine, a completely implausible place for a tree to grow, hanging in complete defiance of the laws of physics. I stand beneath it, neck craned in awe, looking up into the lush green profusion of its living community. It is winter, so all this greenery isn't the tree's own leaves, but photosynthesising life using it as a climbing frame. Paradoxically, in this dry river valley, everything about its grand gathering of epiphytes declares it to be a rainforest tree. It is a perfect synbol of survival against the odds.

Over a third of humanity, and almost 80 percent of North Americans, can no longer see the Milky Way. "The thought of light traveling billions of years from distant galaxies only to be washed out in the last billionth of a second by the glow from the nearest strip mall depresses me no end," vision scientist Sonke Johnsen once wrote. […] Sensory pollution is the pollution of disconnection. It detaches us from the cosmos. It drowns out the stimuli that link animals to their surroundings and to each other. In making the planet brighter and louder, we have also fragmented it. While razing rainforests and bleaching coral reefs, we have also endangered sensory environments. That must now change. We have to save the quiet, and preserve the dark.

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