Man would not be man if his dreams did not exceed his grasp... If I remember the sunflower forest it is because from its hidden reaches man arose. The green world is his sacred center. In moments of sanity he… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share Image
“Taking a final pleasure in what the wind can neither proclaim nor destroy, I am a student of nightfall, I claim no other profession.” — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
We are one of many appearances of the thing called Life; we are not its perfect image, for it has no perfect image except… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
Perhaps a creature of so much ingenuity and deep memory is almost bound to grow alienated from his world, his fellows, and the objects… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
To have dragons one must have change; that is the first principle of dragon lore. — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
It is frequently the tragedy of the great artist, as it is of the great scientist, that he frightens the ordinary man. — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
Every time we walk along a beach some ancient urge disturbs us so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments or scavenging among… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
The future is neither ahead nor behind, on one side or another. Nor is it dark or light. It is contained within ourselves; its… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
Out of the choked Devonian waters emerged sight and sound and the music that rolls invisible through the composer's brain. They are there still… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
“I once saw, on a flower pot in my own living room, the efforts of a field mouse to build a remembered field. I… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
Lights come and go in the night sky. Men, troubled at last by the things they build, may toss in their sleep and dream… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
The secret, if one may paraphrase a savage vocabulary, lies in the egg of night. — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
Without the gift of flowers and the infinite diversity of their fruits, man and bird, if they had continued to exist at all, would… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
“Black magic, the magic of the primeval chaos, blots out or transmogrifies the true form of things. At the stroke of twelve the princess… — Loren Eiseley Copy Share
