Ruskin Bond Quotes

It is supposed to be in very bad taste to discuss a person behind his back; and to discuss a dead person behind his back is most unfair, for he cannot even retaliate.

Listen to the night wind in the trees, Listen to the summer grass singing; Listen to the time that's tripping by, And the dawn dew falling. Listen to the moon as it climbs the sky, Listen to the pebbles humming; Listen to the mist in the trembling leaves, And the silence calling.

And when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful.

The human voice often shatters the beauty of the most tender passions; and when we left Simla next day, and Maureen and Sunil used all the stock cliches to express their love, I was a little disappointed. But the poetry of life was in their bodies, not in their tongues.

When the earth gave birth to this tree, There came no sound: A green shoot thrust In silence from the ground. Our births don't come so quiet - Most lives run riot - But the bud opens silently, And flower gives way to fruit. So must we search For the stillness within the tree, The silence within the root.

It is no use getting upset about delays in India; they come with unfailing punctuality.

Men may sometimes be rather similar, but no two women are ever alike.

The more you write, the better you will write! So - keep at it!

Wretched game, cricket, keeping romantic youths out in the sun when they should be indoors, applying balm to the foreheads of feverish young maidens.

These great trees of the mountains, I feel they know me well, as I watch them & listen to their secrets, happy to rest my head beneath their outstretched arms.

And when the rains were over and it was October and the birds were in song again, I could lie in the sun on sweet-smelling grass and gaze up through a pattern of oak leaves into a blind-blue heaven. And I would thank my God for leaves and grass and the smell of things, the smell of mint and myrtle and bruised clover, and the touch of things, the touch of grass and air and sky, the touch of the sky's blueness.

Hitler's signature is ugly, as you would expect.

I suppose Hinduism comes closest to being a nature religion. Rivers, rocks, trees, plants, animals and birds, all play their part, both in mythology and in everyday worship. This harmony is most evident in these remote places, where gods and mountains co-exist. Tungnath, as yet unspoilt by a materialistic society, exerts its magic on all who come here with open mind and heart.

Live close to nature and your spirit will not be easily broken, for you learn something of patience and resilience. You will not grow restless, and you will never feel lonely.

We must love someone. We must keep loving, all our days, Someone, anyone, anywhere Outside our selves; For even the sarus crane Will grieve over its lost companion, And the seal its mate. Somewhere in life There must be someone To take your hand And share the torrid day. Without the touch of love There is no life, and we must fade away.

On books and friends I spend my money;
For stones and bricks I haven't any.

We get out of life what we bring to it. There is not a dream which may not come true if we have the energy which determines our own fate. We can always get what we want if we will it intensely enough... So few people succeed greatly because so few people conceive a great end, working towards it without giving up. We all know that the man who works steadily for money gets rich; the man who works day and night for fame or power reaches his goal. And those who work deeper, more spiritual achievements will find them too. It may come when we no longer have any use of it, but if we have been willing it long enough, it will come!

Book readers are special people, and they will always turn to books as the ultimate pleasure. Those who do not read are the unfortunate ones. There's nothing wrong with them; but they are missing out on one of life's compensations and rewards. A great book is a friend that never lets you down. You can return to it again and again and the joy first derived from it will still be there.

When I'm writing there's nobody watching me. Today, it's hard to find a profession where you're not being watched!

I do not mind difficulties, as long as they are new difficulties.

* The blackest cloud I've ever seen squatted over Mussoorie, and then it hailed marbles for half an hour. Nothing like a hailstorm to clear the sky . Even as I write, I see a rainbow forming.

Well, it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them.

Early in the morning Rikki-tikki came to early breakfast in the veranda riding on Teddy's shoulder,

Williamson, writing in 1810, tells us that the passes were so infested with tigers that the roads were almost impassible. 'Day after day, for nearly a fortnight, some of the dak people were carried off at one or other of these passes.' In

On the open road we are all brothers.

I am still on my zigzag way, pursuing the diagonal between reason and heart.

We cannot foresee when a bolt from the blue will put an end to the best-laid plans of mice and men.

Every other man is a piece of myself, for I am a part of mankind.

It wouldn't be much fun living on a planet where grass could not grow.

could they get to the river in time?

There is money to be made in the market place, but under the cherry tree there is rest.

When I have sung my songs to you, I'll sing no more,' goes the old ballad. But for one faithful listener, Nelson Eddy is still singing.

Yesterday, I was sad, tomorrow i may be sad again, but today i know that i am happy. I want to live on and on, delighting like a pagan in all that is physical; and i know that this one lifetime, however long, cannot satisfy my heart.

Hinduism comes closest to being a nature religion. Rivers, rocks, trees, plants, animals, and birds all play their part, both in mythology and everyday worship. This harmony is most evident in remote places like this, and I hope it does not loose its unique character in the ruthless urban advance.

There has been no storm, no thunder just the steady swish of tropical downpour. It helps one to lie awake; at the same time; it doesn't keep one from sleeping.

It Is a good sound to read by - the rain outside, the quiet within - and there is a general feeling of being untouched by, and yet in touch with, the rain.

When we are young, we can put up with a great deal of discomfort in order to follow a dream. If, after thirty-five years, I'm still doing my own thing, it's because I haven't forgotten the dream. Let no man take your dream away. It will sustain you to the end.

Some night sounds outside my window remain strange & mysterious. Perhaps they are the sounds of the trees themselves, stretching their limbs in the dark, shifting a little, flexing their fingers, whispering to one another.

He tiger is the very soul of India,&when the last tiger has gone,so will the soul of the country.

All of us need just one good accomplishment in order to get by. Obviously he can't spend the rest of his life climbing trees, but it's the agility and enterprise involved in the act that will make him a survivor. Enough

Happiness is an elusive state of mind not to be gained by clumsy pursuit.It is given to those who do not sue for it:to be unconcerned about a desired good is probably the only way to possess it.

I knew I was free; that I had always been free; held back only by my own weakness, lacking impulse and the imagination to break away from an existence that had become habitual for years.

RUSTY watched the dawn blossom into light. At first everything was dark, then gradually objects began to take shape - the desk and chair, the walls of the room - and the darkness lifted like the raising of a veil, and over the tree-tops the sky was streaked with crimson. It was like this for some time, while everything became clearer and more distinguishable; and then, when nature was ready, the sun reached up over the trees and hills, and sent one tentative beam of warm light through the window. Along the wall crept the sun, across to the bed, and up the boy's bare legs, until it was caressing his entire body and whispering to him to get up, get up, it is time to get up ...

All men are my friends. I have only to meet them.' In these hills, where life still moves at a leisurely and civilized pace, one is constantly meeting them. The

Those who do not read are the unfortunate ones. There's nothing wrong with them, but they are missing out on one of life's compensations and rewards.

When I write I just keep a waste paper basket handy in case I am experiencing a block.

One sure way to lose the world and everything in it, is to try grasping it.

Normally writers do not talk much,because they are saving their conversations for the readers of their book-
those invisible listeners with whom we wish to strike a sympathetic chord.

It is better to be a human without any gifts than a Jinn or a genius with one too many.

Tungnath's lonely eminence gives it a magic of its own. To get there (or beyond), one passes through some of the most delightful temperate forest in the Garhwal Himalaya. Pilgrim, or trekker, or just plain rambler such as myself, one comes away a better person, forest-refreshed, and more aware of what the world was really like before mankind began to strip it bare. Duiri

It's courage, not luck, that takes us through to the end of the road.

As I walked home last night
I saw a lone fox dancing
In the cold moonlight.

I stood and watched. Then
Took the low road, knowing
The night was his by right.

Sometimes, when words ring true,
I'm like a lone fox dancing
In the morning dew.

I ... allowed my memory to journey back to the days when I was a boy of ten, full of health and optimism, when my wonder at the great game of living had yet to give way to disillusionment at its shabbiness.

Good omelettes are still hard to come by. They shouldn't be made in a hurried or slapdash manner. Some thought has to go into an omelette. And a little love too. It's like writing a book - done much better with some feeling!

Many people - car drivers anyway - think I'm a little eccentric. So be it. I probably am eccentric! But having come to the Himalayan foothills forty years ago in order to enjoy walking among them, I am not about to stop now, just because everyone else has stopped walking. The hills are durable in their attractions, and my legs have proved durable too, so why should we not continue together as before?

teacher droned on and on, lecturing

I don't want to rot like mangoes at the end of the season, or burnout like the sun at the and of the day. I cannot live like the gardener, the cook and water-carrier, doing the same task everyday of my life ... I want to be either somebody or nobody. I don't want to be anybody.

Rain‬.
It washes the leaves,
Gives new life to grass,
Draws out the scent of the earth

Flowers floating down the river; yellow and scarlet cannas, roses, jasmine, hibiscus. They are placed in boats made of broad leaves, then consigned to the waters with a prayer. The strong current carries them swiftly downstream, and they bob about on the water for fifty, sometimes a hundred yards, before being submerged in the river. Do the pursued prayers sink too, or do they reach the hearts of the many gods who have favoured Hardwar - 'door of Hari,or Vishnu'- these several hundred years?

Some people become an integral part of our lives; others are ships that pass in the night. Short stories, in fact. My

I did not sleep last night, for you had kissed me. You held my hand and put it to your cheek and to your breasts. And I had closed your eyes and kissed them, and taken your face in my hands and touched your lips with mine. And then, my darling, I stumbled into the light like a man intoxicated, and did not say or know what people were saying or doing ... ' Gosh!

I feel drawn to little temples on lonely hilltops. With the mist swirling round them, and the wind humming in the stunted pines, they absorb some of the magic and mystery of their surroundings and transmit it to the questing pilgrim.

Romance lurks in the most unlikely places.

And that's what I've been doing all my life - plodding along, singing my song, telling my tales in my own unhurried way. I have lived life at my own gentle pace, and if as a result I have failed to get to the top of the mountain (or of anything else), it doesn't matter, the long walk has brought its own sweet rewards; buttercups and butterflies along the way. Ruskin Bond Landour, March 2005

The sunlight, penetrating the gaps in the tall trees, plays chess on the gravestones, shifting slowly and thoughtfully across the worn old stones. The wind, like a hundred violins, plays perpetually in the topmost branches of the deodars.

I have made no attempt at chronology. My writing hasn't changed much over the years. That's because I haven't changed. I am still the impractical dreamer that I was sixty years ago, when I decided that writing would be my vocation and my profession. I do not suffer from writer's block. I have only to sit down at my desk for the words to come tumbling on to my writing pad. And if an ant moves across my desk, I shall record its transit.

But my animals are real animals, and they behave as animals usually do. It's really the humans who do strange things. Animals are predictable. Humans, never.

I mostly write short stories. They are best written in a continuous creative process. You have a feel of immediacy.

A tiger is a tiger; he has his dignity to preserve even though he isn't aware of it!

It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them. There is no escape.

Hapiness is as exclusive as a butterfly, and you must never pursue it. If you stay very still, it may come and settle on your hand. But only briefly. Savour those moments, for they will not come in your way very often.

There are two kinds of authors - subjective and objective. Introverts are more inward looking.

How evanescent those loves and friendships seem at this distance in time ... We move on, make new attachments. We grow old. But sometimes, we hanker for old friendships, the old loves. Sometimes I wish I was young again. Or that I could travel back in time and pick up the threads. Absent so long, I may have stopped loving you, friends; but I will never stop loving the Day I loved you.

She walked home through the darkening glade, singing of the stars; and the trees stood still and listened to her, and the mountains were glad.

Love is undying,of that I feel certain.I mean deep,abiding,cherishing love.The love that gives protection even as you,my guardian angel,gave me protection long after you had gone-and continue to give this very day ...
A love beyond Death-a love that makes Life alive!

To the inhabitants of the pond, the pond was the world; and to the inhabitants of the world, the world was but a muddy pond.

People often ask me why my style is so simple. It is, in fact, deceptively simple, for no two sentences are alike. It is clarity that I am striving to attain, not simplicity.
Of course, some people want literature to be difficult and there are writers who like to make their readers toil and sweat. They hope to be taken more seriously that way. I have always tried to achieve a prose that is easy and conversational. And those who think this is simple should try it for themselves.

There's a great affinity between trees and men.We grow at much the same pace, if we are not hurt or starved or cut down. In our youth we are resplendent creatures, and in our declining years we stoop a little, we remember,we stretch our brittle limbs in the sun,and then,with a sigh,we shed our last leaves.

A merry heart does good like a medicine, but a broken spirit dries the bones.

In times of crisis, it's wonderful what the imagination will do.

A Quiet Mind Lord, give me a quiet mind, That I might listen; A gentle tone of voice, That I might comfort others; A sound and healthy body, That I might share In the joy of walking And leaping and running; And a good sense of direction So I might know just where I'm going!

The other day a young Internet surfer asked me why I preferred using a pencil instead of a computer. The principal reason, I told him, was that I liked chewing on the end of my pencil. A nasty habit, but it helps me concentrate. And I find it extremely difficult to chew on a computer.

Death moves about at random, without discriminating between the innocent and the evil, the poor and the rich. The only difference is that the poor usually handle it better.

Life had since become fast and cruel and unreflective, and people were too busy counting their gains to bother about the idols of their youth.

But he could not return; he was afraid of what lay ahead, he dreaded the unknown, but it was easier to walk forwards than backwards.

Well, we are equals, in our fear as in our loneliness.

Out of the city and over the hill,
Into the spaces where Time stands still,
Under the tall trees, touching old wood,
Taking the way where warriors once stood;
Crossing the little bridge, losing my way,
But finding a friendly place where I can stay.
Those were the days, friend, when we were strong
And strode down the road to an old marching song
When the dew on the grass was fresh every morn,
And we woke to the call of the ring-dove at dawn.
The years have gone by, and sometimes I falter,
But still I set out for a stroll or a saunter,
For the wind is as fresh as it was in my youth,
And the peach and the pear, still the sweetest of fruit,
So cast away care and come roaming with me,
Where the grass is still green and the air is still free.

It has bloomed again,
This flower that I thought dead.
In one moment of despair
And pain,
I'd trampled it in the ground
Upon this barren plain.
Little did I know
That it would rise again,
This flower that I thought dead.
My soul would need
A surer weapon than despair
To crush a thing so bright, so fair.

Live close to nature and you'll never feel lonely. Don't drive those sparrows out of your veranda; they won't hack into your computer.

It would be a dull world if it was the same everywhere,

When the whistling-thrush released
A deep sweet secret on the trembling air;
Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows,
Black rose in the long ago summer,
This was your song:
It isn't time that's passing by,
It is you and I.

The pure, the bright, the beautiful, That stirred our hearts in youth, The impulse to a wordless prayer, The dreams of love and truth; The longings after something lost, The spirit's yearning cry, The striving after better hopes ... These things can never die.

It isn't time that's passing by, it is you and I. It

Some memories are best left untouched.

For nature does things in good order:
And birds and butterflies recognize
No man-made border

Red roses for young lovers. French beans for longstanding relationships

let nature reign, let freedom sing.

Everyone says she's mad.'
'How do they know?' I asked.
'Because she's different from other people, I suppose.'
'Is that being mad?'
'No. Not really, I suppose madness is not seeing things as others see them.

The rain swirls over the trees and roofs of the town, and the parched earth soaks it up, exuding a fragrance that comes only once in a year, the fragrance of quenched earth, the most exhilarating of all smells.

On the open road there are no strangers. You share the same sky, the same mountain, the same sunshine and shade. On the open road we are all brothers. The

To return to my own trees, I went among them often, acknowledging their presence with a touch of my hand against their trunks.