"Money is never the right answer if the question is earth."
I initially struggled with this book; after the third time he brought up the wind turbines that were being put up near his home, I found myself melancholic and thought 'oh this is going to be a depressing book, maybe I shouldn't read it'.
But as I sat with the feeling, I realized it wasn't his bemoaning the turbines that bothered me, but the concept of mankind disrupting wild pure land for its own purposes that I am troubled by. I myself am too familiar with this feeling; I distinctly recall being brought to tears when I saw a small wilderness near my Tucson home razed to the ground to build a hideous housing complex. I'd driven by it so many times over the years, seen the birds flitting through the mesquite and the cactus, smelled the javelina musk, admired the centuries-old saguaro, and to see it all smothered in just a few days for a handful of homes was devastating to me. It was a huge loss of life that was utterly heart-stopping, particularly when there were so many empty dilapidated homes downtown that could be fixed up if the housing situation were really so dire. This wasn't the first time I'd felt this devastation, nor was it the last. In fact, even now that I've moved to Ireland, I see the posted 'site development plans' on fences around a small wilderness and find myself mourning.
I have a deep compassion, a reverence for nature that I don't often find mirrored in society. Reading this book, and finding that someone else feels the same as I do was a deep comfort. Maybe I'm just a delicate flower in this harsh world - but have you ever really, truly looked at a flower, felt its presence, it's determination to live, to exist? By god, it's beautiful.
We can imagine what will come, and it will be wonderful, while a the same time, it will be more than we can possibly imagine. You can't out-imagine the reality of spring. It is greater than human dreaming."
"In the guard that is in garden, in the sense of an enclosure, and, importantly, something protected. This, more than the idea of cultivation, is what seems central to me these days. In this enclosed space in Kiltumper, we will protect and nourish what is here. That is what we are doing when we say we are gardening."
"It is not yet Little Christmas, but the pulse of the spring that is still underground has entered you. You are the same as all that hold within it the returning life, and your version of that is to be outside."
"It is simply the natural extension of our living her, and as close as we get to having a relationship with the earth, not the one with a capital E, not the grand vast ungraspable wholeness of the thing that the steel turbines are said to be saving, but the portion of mud, clay, and stone that live with us."
"The fact of tending the ground, feeding the worms I suppose, and that there is something absolutely right in this, and that the smallness of it, the most local of localities, the garden in Kiltumper, is enough world, enough earth, for a lifetime."
"Think how terrible it would be if you stepped outside, looked around and concluded: nothing needs doing, the garden is perfect. It would be the end of the relationship, and by extension our living with and on the planet. So, no, a garden can't be done."
"There is some inconvenience: in the swooping of their flights in and out as people come and go, often startled by the speed and dash of the birds, and in the little black-and-white bombed hillock of their droppings, but this is nothing to the joy, first when they return, second when you see, suddenly, a nest has appeared, third, when you can see and hear the beaks of the chicks up there, and last, when the family all take to the air. You feel you've been part of something, something that has happened here for a long time, and with a sense of life, of aliveness quietly continuing, despite all that is terrible and dispiriting in the world of mankind."
"We never think of Eden as a garden that needed clearing or maintenance; I suppose the logic is it was Before the Fall and therefore Perfect, but if it was a living place, if the plants in it grew, then they would grow too large and crowd each other and need pruning and dividing and all the rest of it. If they didn't grow, it wasn't a garden as we know it. [...] a garden, as I understand it, is a thing that is inextricable both from change and from human activity; it needs us to exist. A wilderness is not a garden. [...] A mown path is what makes it a 'garden', if it can be considered one. The path is what invites you. And part of that invitation is that when you see the opening through the tall grasses you connect to the mind that first imagined it and think: Look, here's a way to go. In other words, it's a human connection."
"I have often been surprised [...] by journalists asking me if it really rains in Clare as much as it does in my books. The question was genuine, and in time I realized that it was being asked by people who largely lived and worked indoors, who in the course of a normal day spent few hours actually outside. Weather then was a factor confined to the morning commute, lunchtimes, weekends, and in realizing this a couple of things struck me, first that I was fortunate enough to know the rain at first hand, and second that for most people climate change would remain an abstraction until the streets were flooded or the taps yielded no water."
"Those living on the margins forget the center, as it has forgotten them. The margin becomes the center of a different entity, a portion of which is unmapped and invisible."
"I would never have imagined, could never hand, what I would feel looking at the ansence where for more thatn hald of my life that tree had been. The physical presence of it had become part of my known world, and really, I had taken it for granted [...] It was just there, and only now, when it was gone, dd I feel its loss as one of the fixtures of the place [...] I can't see past the vacancy, and the failure in myself to have fully appreciate the tree that is now gone."
"Once, these stones were picked day after day, often by large families of children, to make the fields, stones brought to the perimeters for the building of the walls. Whole families were in the making. The stone walls hold the history of their hands, and though the walls are here and there off-kilter, here and there tumble-style, or overgrown with blackberry brambles, they have the dignity of their makers. The walls are literally full of time and, as with the trees, when gone, are missed more than they were loved."
"It's the same as when you ask someone to show you the carbon calculation of all the months of digging, site-clearing, tree-felling, quarrying, loading, cement-mixing, transporting, unloading, road-widening, construction, erection, connection to the grid, and ask them to add to that the making of the steel of the turbines, the blades, in a location hundred of miles away, and tot onto that the transportation of the same in vehicles burning fossil fuels, and when you've done that carbon maths, show me the figure versus the green energy value of two turbines. And when they can't tell you that figure, you'll find yourself thinking this is all more about profit than climate."
"Relevance is too low a measure to apply to any art."
"I never think what value had the countryside? And, forced to now, cannot compute it in actual or monetary terms. Which is maybe why I am not a real farmer, and will never threaten to be wealthy. When I think of the countryside, I think of it mostly in spiritual terms."
"Is this the purpose of wild and remote places? To be employed in the cause of keeping the lights on in urban ones? This seems less about changing the way we are living, taking responsibility for resources and how we use them, and more about simply changing where the energy is to come from. Replace the fossil fuel with wind and sun and the cities of the world can carry on before, illumined through the night. It seems to me a caustic irony that in the rush to embrace a greener way it is the actual green places that count least."
"It [Christmas] is imposed, I know, the day like any other in reality, but the imprint of millennia is not to be easily ignored."