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Quote by Ernst Jünger

“Dafür dass wir, wie auch die Tiere, von den Pflanzen leben, ja ohne sie nicht einmal atmen könnten, genügt kein einfacher Dank – Verehrung ist angebracht.”

Quote by Ernst Jünger

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Ernst Jünger

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“When the farmer bores the tap hole into the trunk, the tree sends sap to heal the wound. Sure enough, by the next spring, only an extremely observant and knowledgeable person can find the old tap scars. When the wind blows, the tree senses that a branch might break. A broken branch is a much more serious wound than a little clean tap hole in the trunk. Therefore, the tree withholds the sap from the tap hole in case it needs to rush a bunch of sap to a broken limb somewhere. Once the wind subsides, the sap starts flowing again through the little tap hole. Sentient beings, anyone? You bet. Fearfully and wonderfully made.”

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Book:The Marvelous Pigness of Pigs: Respecting and Caring for All God's Creation
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“Let my heart and mind The heart loves, The mind thinks, The heart wants to believe in what it loves, But the mind denies to feel before it thinks, The day brings her forth in beauty’s all possible forms, The night hides her from the eyes desperate to see her, Then the mind creates her in all known and felt forms, While the heart begins to only beat for her, The pulse of life seeks her in everything, While the fear of death scares the mind, But the heart is busy creating her life’s impressions in everything, So that when the mind dies, it loves her with its own mind, But neither the heart nor the mind bother to consult me, For the mind believes what it thinks and the heart believes only what it feels, And my mind constantly thinks of her, my heart only loves to feel her, and ah what a joy they both bring to me, Because only when my heart is loving her, my mind the true pulse of life feels, So I finally get to know the heart in love, My mind that loves to think only her thoughts, And finally I allow my heart to be the heart of love, And my mind the mind of loving thoughts, Her thoughts, her love, her feelings, her everything, Until I lose every sense that defines me, Because now just like my heart, wherever I might be, I only see her in everything, Even her sensation now fills a major part of me, And finally I manage to give all these feelings a name, That always feels and sounds the same, She, her beauty, her feelings and her name, The world around me has not evolved, but it certainly has changed, but her feeling and my love for her remain the same, So my love Irma, let my heart feel you long enough, For it loves beating for you, Let my mind think of you long enough, For I love it, when it only thinks of you!”

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Book:They Loved in 2075!
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“I was educated at Cambridge. How admirable is the Western method of submitting all theory to scrupulous experimental verification! That empirical procedure has gone hand in hand with the gift for introspection which is my Eastern heritage. Together they have enabled me to sunder the silences of natural realms long uncommunicative. The telltale charts of my crescograph2 are evidence for the most skeptical that plants have a sensitive nervous system and a varied emotional life. Love, hate, joy, fear, pleasure, pain, excitability, stupor, and countless appropriate responses to stimuli are as universal in plants as in animals. - Jagadis Chandra Bose”

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Book:Autobiography of a Yogi
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“I thought you hated them,” Nine Hibiscus said, dryly. “Was all of that complaining about ecosystem disruption for show, then?” Twenty Cicada looked up at her, and dismissed most of his work holos with the hand that wasn’t petting the small void on his knee. “I do hate them,” he said, smiling. “But this one likes me, and what am I going to do with the things, space them? It’s not their fault they exist.” She came to sit next to him, knee to knee. There always seemed to be more oxygen in one of Twenty Cicada’s garden rooms. (Not seemed: there was. Plant respiration. She’d checked the readouts once. It was a fractional difference, but real.) The Kauraanian pet lifted its head and opened yellow eyes. It made a noise like a badly tuned stringed instrument, stood, paced in a tight circle on Twenty Cicada’s lap, and settled down again. “I didn’t think you’d space them, Swarm,” she said. “But this is cuddling.” “It yowls if I don’t,” Twenty Cicada said, perfectly bland, and Nine Hibiscus laughed.”

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Book:A Desolation Called Peace
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