Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Barrenness. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Barrenness Quotes And Sayings by 93 Authors including Susanna Kaysen,Edna Ferber,Garth Nix,John Fowles,Hosea Ballou for you to enjoy and share.
Emptiness and boredom: what a complete understatement. What I felt was complete desolation. Desolation, despair and boredom.
I sometimes wonder ... if the land is not destroying the people who inhabit it as the people who inhabit it are destroying the land. A magic continent, a Peculiar Treasure, stuffed with riches, millions in it are starving in the midst of plenty.
Devoid of life, it was also devoid of the Dead.
Whole sight; or all the rest is desolation.
Idleness is emptiness; the tree in which the sap is stagnant, remains fruitless.
It is beautiful, it is endless, it is full and yet seems empty. It hurts us.
A bit of shape and form has disappeared from the world, increasing the amount of nothingness.
What I was trying to convey there was the kind of waste land that was left after the war. It was a bit like one always thinks of war, you know, stark scenery and no birds, no trees, no leaves, nothing living. And just emptiness.
them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under
For every dry land there is a cloud of revival
Wilderness, wilderness ... We scarcely know what we mean by the term, though the sound of it draws all whose nerves and emotions have not been irreparably stunned, deadened, numbed by the caterwauling of commerce, the sweating scramble for profit and domination.
The region is a desert of stones, a solitude with a character of its own, an arid spot, which could only be inhabited by beings who had either attained to absolute nullity, or were gifted with some abnormal strength of soul.
A nation who sits like cows on the fields while the country's trees are being cut down ruthlessly deserves the emptiest deserts thousands of times!
There are flood and drought over the eyes and in the mouth, dead water and dead sand contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil gapes at the vanity of toil, laughs without mirth. This is the death of the earth.
Otherwise it was barren as a desert, just long dunes of brick and cement and slate and asphalt.
The eternal silence of the great white desert. Cloudy columns of snow drift advancing from the south, pale yellow wraiths, heralding the coming storm, blotting out one by one the sharp-cut lines of the land.
My friends are right:
there is beauty
in desolation.
Certain seeds it will not nurture, certain fruit it will not bear and when the land kills of its own volition, we acquiesce and say the victim had no right to live
There is no wilderness. There is only our inability to fill the emptiness in which we live ...
Wilderness is a necessity ... there must be places for human beings to satisfy their souls ...
All who see it say, "Well, you have favorable conditions here. Everything grows for you." Everything grows for everybody. Everything dies for everybody, too.
Above all I am hoping for trees, which may afford me some means of concealment and food and shelter. Often there are trees because barren landscapes are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them.
A spiritual desert is spreading - an interior emptiness, an unnamed fear, a quiet sense of despair.
Sometimes it rained, but mostly it was just dull, a land without shadows. It was like living inside Tupperware.
There is a tale ... It tells of the days when a blight hung over our land. Nothing prospered. Nothing flourished. Not even zucchini would grow.
Earth's a howling wilderness,
Truculent with fraud and force.
In Cornwall, it is quite possible to take a stride from the richest vegetation into the abomination of desolation. It has been said in mockery that Cornwall does not grow wood enough to make coffins for the people.
How many we know who have fled the sweetness of a tranquil life in their homes, among the friends, to seek the horror of uninhabitable deserts; who have flung themselves into humiliation, degradation, and the contempt of the world, and have enjoyed these and even sought them out.
Scenery without solace is meaningless.
It was a vast emptiness vastly filled, a nothing that found room for everything -- room for grass, trees, shadowy distant hills, and far above them snow-peaks like a row of angular clouds riding the blue sky . I had lost a head and gained a world.
Them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives.
O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,
So scant of grass, so profligate of pines
This view of a living nature where man is nothing is both odd and sad. Here, in a fertile land, in an eternal greenness, you search in vain for traces of man; you feel you are carried into a different world from the one you were born into.
I merely feel emptyness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers use to bloom.
A world without hope, but no despair
Siberia: it fills one twelfth of the land-mass of the whole Earth, yet this is all it leaves for certain in the mind. A bleak beauty, and an indelible fear.
Nothingness
... there in this place
where nothingness takes
but for the glimmer
a steadfast shimmer
all would be consumed ...
Their only respite is in the balm of bleakness. Disdainful of the solicitations of hope, they look for sanctuary in desolate places - a scattering of ruins in a barren locale or a rubble of words in a book where someone whispers in a dry voice, "I, too, am here." However,
Where there is life.
it's like the land that time forgot. Or more like a place that's holding its breath, hoping time won't stumble upon it. Down
I will weep and wail for the mountains and take up a lament concerning the desert pastures. They are desolate and untraveled, and the lowing of cattle is not heard. The birds of the air have fled and the animals are gone.
That's what depression had wrought inside me: one, vast, barren rock garden-without the garden
When we destroy the fertile lands, we destroy our own good life!
Sprinkled along the waste of years Full many a soft green isle appears: Pause where we may upon the desert road, Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode.
A mind without imaginations is a barren field.
On a more everyday level, our point is simply that when a person feels himself inwardly empty, as is the case with so many modern people, he experiences nature around him also as empty, dried up, dead. The two experiences of emptiness are two sides of the same state of impoverished relation to life.
Vast areas are witness to the struggles of destitute populations trying to survive under unlivable conditions.
Emptiness constantly falls within our reach. It is always with us, and conditions all our knowledge, all our deeds and is our life itself. It is only when we attempt to pick it up and hold it forth as something before our eyes that it eludes us, frustrates all our efforts and vanishes like vapor.
The land of opportunities that appeared greener when they were on the other side of the world deceptively veiled the harsh terrains which could only be transformed into fertile oasis with the passage of time and tough grind.
We imbue deserts and the tundra with menace because nothing, or little, grows there.
No water, No life.
Life, unlike the inanimate, will take the long way round to circumvent barrenness. A kind of desperate will resides even in a root.
I'm completely uninhabited.
Where are the coconut trees bowing allegiance to the wind, the wide open spaces, the verdant green fields?
The whole world appears to me like a huge vacuum, a vast empty space, whence nothing desirable, or at least satisfactory, can possibly be derived; and I long daily to die more and more to it; even though I obtain not that comfort from spiritual things which I earnestly desire.
Misery and poverty of a nation does not depend on how fertile their land is but the fertility of their thoughts.
Mountains and deserts, with their sparse life at the limit of existence, make one restless and disconsolate; one becomes an explorer in an intellectual realm as well as in a physical one.
As desire recedes, the world becomes clear, pale, and empty.
This city desert makes you feel so cold. It's got so many people, but it's got no soul.
The land too poor for any other crop, is best for raising men.
There are people who have no engaged conversation with the land whatsoever, no sense of its beauty or extremes or limits and therefore no reason to question their actions in a place that is merely backdrop.
I envy cornerstone in empty deserts, because they are themselves, and for the same reason I envy rocks in the hills, where man has never set foot, and trees in the valleys that man has ever seen.
Where timber vegetation is ruthlessly destroyed, aridity and its sequence sterility will prevail and the hotter the climate, the more to be dreaded.
Nothing could be more awe-inspiring and majestic than the inconceivable vastness and stillness of space, and yet what is it? Emptiness, vast emptiness.
People had never dwelt here, people would never come; never could they find home in this vast, wind-swept void.
Some look at the hills from far away and see only the barren lands; some travel amongst the hills and find the most beautiful valleys!
Where there is no waste, there is no want.
I cannot imagine my hometown without forests, and I cannot imagine the earth turned into a desert.
I have seen so many lands vanish in my wake, torn down like stage sets. What survives of them? An image as fleeting as a dream: whatever beauties I discovered, I already knew by heart.
Deprived of pain, and also deprived of danger, able to do what it wants, [Nature] does not need us, nor understands our deserts, and it cannot be angry.
The road to someday leads to a town of nowhere.
And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Where there's no gardener, there's no garden.
A multitude of people and yet solitude.
When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights;
And all around is the desert; a corner of the mournful kingdom of sand.
A few men own from ten thousand to two hundred thousand acres each. The poor Laborer can find no resting place, save on the barren mountain, or in the trackless desert.
23 The fallow ground of the poor would yield much food, but it is swept away through b injustice.
The emptiness of one's days
can be seen as utterly hopeless
or as ripe with potential.
Is one of the fairest portions of the globe to remain in a state of nature, the haunt of a few wretched savages, when it seems destined by the Creator to give support to a large population and to be the seat of civilization?
If you don't cultivate your promise land you won't get anything from it.
Wilderness has been characterized as barren and unproductive; little can be grown in its sand and rock. But the crops of wilderness have always been its spiritual values - silence and solitude, a sense of awe and gratitude - able to be harvested by any traveler who visits.
I couldn't live where there were no trees
something vital in me would starve.
Once, when I was describing to a friend from Syracuse, New York, a place on the plains that I love, a ridge above a glacial moraine with a view of almost fifty miles, she asked, "But what is there to see?" The answer, of course, is nothing. Land, sky, and the ever-changing light.
Famine and disaster, right there in front of you, and the more you watch, the less you do.
All plenty which is not my God is poverty to me.
Hay farms, scrub forest, and some bald-looking areas of
Magnificent, magnificent desolation.
Poverty palls the most generous spirits; it cows industry, and casts resolution itself into despair.
The gloomy and the resentful are always found among those who have nothing to do or who do nothing.
there is nothing but emptyness for the mind that does not seek!
Idleness, pleasure, what abysses! To do nothing is a dreary course to take, be sure of it. To live idle upon the substance of society! To be useless, that is to say, noxious! This leads straight to the lowest depth of misery.
For this, deep waters whelm the fruitful lea, Wars ravage, famine wastes, plague withers, nor Shall cease till men have chosen the better part.
When farmers lose their land, they lose their soul,
Where there is no vision a people perish.
Abundance is mine. I cannot be deprived of my supply. The trees do not lack for leaves, nor do the flowers fail to bloom.
Those who found nothing on the plains will find nothing on the summits of mountains!
Nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility.
Wilderness is the source of what we can imagine and what we cannot - the taproot of consciousness.
It will survive us.
There is a loneliness that fills the plain.
Total.
Lunar.