Gregor Smith

“We dont even know their names anymore. The average person knows the name of less than a dozen plants, and this includes such categories as 'Christmas Tree'. Losing their names is a step in losing respect.”
― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses

“Grey lizards, those heirs of ruin, of sepulchres and desolation, glided in and out among the rocks or lay still and sunned themselves. Where prosperity has reigned, and fallen; where glory has flamed, and gone out; where beauty has dwelt, and passed away; where gladness was, and sorrow is; where the pomp of life has been, and silence and death brood in its high places, there this reptile makes his home, and mocks at human vanity. His coat is the colour of ashes: and ashes are the symbol of hopes that have perished, of aspirations that came to nought, of loves that are buried. If he could speak, he would say, Build temples: I will lord it in their ruins; build palaces: I will inhabit them; erect empires: I will inherit them; bury your beautiful: I will watch the worms at their work; and you, who stand here and moralise over me: I will crawl over your corpse at the last.”
― Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad, Or, the New Pilgrims' Progress

“As we travelled from village to village, through the valleys with their bright streams, fields of golden maize and orchards of apricot trees it was impossible to imagine that one had stumbled into a wild garden of Eden whose people were miraculously preserved from the vileness of the twentieth century. Staying in a village for any length of time, one was drawn into another world of slow and subtle change, measurably by the colours of the corn and the height of the river, the rising of the sun and setting of the moon; a different universe whose inhabitants welcomed us with fear and kindness. But gradually the poverty, the primitive conditions and the drab monotony of an existence with nothing but the basic necessities had become oppresive. I felt like a traveller from the future, imprisoned in a present that was also the past remembered from a previous life.”
― Peregrine Hodson, Under a Sickle Moon: A Journey Through Afghanistan

“About thirty of us settled down to sleep on the trestle branches of the chaikhane but my mind refused to let go of the day's images and i got up and walked along the street till I came to some shepherds gathered around a fire, their shadows dancing on an adobe wall and a chestnut tree. I did not approach them, but stood outside the ring of firelight and looked at them. Just so, I had glimpsed the life of the people but I was very little closer to knowing what it was to be one of them. Their past, present and future were contained in the fields and orchards, the streets and the bazaar of Nahrin. My time was different and in another place.”
― Peregrine Hodson, Under a Sickle Moon: A Journey Through Afghanistan