Laurie Lee Quotations

But our waking life, and our growing years, were for the most part spent in the kitchen, and until we married, or ran away, it was the common room we shared.

That last winter was a tragic story and I got no personal honour out of it but I was a witness to it.

I don't know what idiocies drove me in those days, but they were naive, innocent idiocies in many ways.

I have been sitting watching that ever since I came back, the continuous variations of light and shadow.

What she did was to open our eyes to details of country life such as teaching us names of wild flowers and getting us to draw and paint and learn poetry.

I wanted to communicate what I had seen, so that others could see it.

We were living in the Slad Road when my father left us. I was about three.

It was a world that I wanted to record because it was such a miracle visitation to me.

I expected to be shot at any moment and if they had done I would have understood, that they couldn't take risks with someone foolhardy or so unpredictable.

With three kids, it seems like I'm always shelling out $5 here and $5 there,

I was reminding them of their lives and I think that was why it was read so much, but this was quite unintentional and unpredictable.

Here we lived and fed in a family fug, not minding the little space, trod on each other like birds in a hole, elbowed our ways without spite, all talking at once or silent at once, or crying against each other, but never I think feeling overcrowded, being as separate as notes in a scale.

I was last among the long grass and I'd never seen long grass and never been on my own and out of sight of humans before.

I remember trying to impress her by writing an essay about the Rocky Mountains and the bears and it was the first bad review I ever had - shameful!

Well, he was trying to get home - aren't we all, really, in the end?

We've heard some concerns, and we've been troubleshooting, We're satisfied. We think Express Scripts is a very good partner.

What happened was unpredictable but it also reminded many readers of their beginnings and their family recollections.

The sun sets down at the end of the valley over the Severn and there's this afterglow which catches those quarries and it just sits there glowing when the light is gone from everywhere else in the valley - it holds the light to the last drop.

It was the end of a semi-feudal life and it was also the beginning of one's own life.

For anyone who knows Framingham, they're a big service provider.

Such a morning it is when love leans through geranium windows and calls with a cockerel's tongue. When red-haired girls scamper like roses over the rain-green grass, and the sun drips honey.

In London, Man is the most secret animal on earth.

All civilizations at some time have fallen into this total terror, when the mystery of life was a kind of panic only to be assuaged by the spilling of blood.

Effie M. was a monster. Six foot high and as strong as a farm horse.No sooner had she decided that she wanted UncleTom than she knocked him off his bicycle and told him.

I was set down from the carrier's cart at the age of three; and there with a sense of bewilderment and terror my life in the village began.

In America, even your menus have the gift of language.... The Chef's own Vienna Roast. A hearty, rich meat loaf, gently seasoned to perfection and served in a creamy nest of mashed farm potatoes and strictly fresh garden vegetables. Of course, what you get is cole slaw and a slab of meat, but that doesn't matter because the menu has already started your juices going. Oh, those menus. In America, they are poetry.

The prospect Smiler was a manic farmer. Few men I think can have been as unfortunate as he; for on the one hand he was a melancholic with a loathing for mankind, on the other, some paralysis had twisted his mouth into a permanent and radiant smile. So everyone he met, being warmed by his smile, would shout him a happy greeting. And beaming upon them with his sunny face he would curse them all to hell.

The Welsh are not like any other people in Britain, and they know how separate they are. They are the Celts, the tough little wine-dark race who were the original possessors of the island, who never mixed with the invaders coming later from the east, but were slowly driven into the western mountains.

Bees blew like cake-crumbs through the golden air, white butterflies like sugared wafers, and when it wasn't raining a diamond dust took over which veiled and yet magnified all things

At best, love is simply the slipping of a hand in another's, of knowing you are where you belong at last, and of exchanging through the eyes that all-consuming regard which ignores everybody else on earth.

For the first time I was learning how much easier it was to leave than to stay behind and love.

The house is still down the bank, still very unchanged, except that there are new people, nice people living there.