“Writing is like the life of a glacier; one eternal grind.”

The rivers flow not past, but through us, thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing.

Going to the woods is going home.

Earth has no sorrow that earth can not heal.

Most people who travel look only at what they are directed to look at. Great is the power of the guidebook maker, however ignorant.

There is a love of wild nature in everybody, an ancient mother-love showing itself whether recognized or no, and however covered by cares and duties.

Mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not ‘hike’ through them.

Wildness is a necessity.

What a psalm the storm was singing, and how fresh the smell of the washed earth and leaves, and how sweet the still small voices of the storm!

How narrow we selfish conceited creatures are in our sympathies! How blind to the rights of all the rest of creation!

Every sight and sound inspiring, leading one far out of himself, yet feeding and building up his individuality.

If people in general could be got into the woods, even for once, to hear the trees speak for themselves, all difficulties in the way of forest preservation would vanish.

Take me into the mountains.

God has cared for these trees, saved them from drought, disease, avalanches, and a thousand tempests and floods. But he cannot save them from fool.

Handle a book as a bee does a flower, extract its sweetness but do not damage it.

The sun shines not on us but in us.

We were glad, however, to get within reach of information.