Fishing is taking a huge toll on the planet's ecosystem. We are emptying the oceans, seas, lakes, and rivers as we fish them dry.
Anglers boast of the innocence of their pastime; yet it puts fellow-creatures to the torture. They pique themselves on their meditative faculties; and yet their only excuse is a want of thought.
When the dead do walk seek water's run, for this the Dead will always shun. Swift river's best or broadest lake to ward the dead and have and make. If water fails thee, fire's thy friend, if neither guards it will be thy end.
. . . in rebellion against the typical British-type dry flies, I created the Wulff series.
When your consciousness becomes a still mirror, a still lake, a silent reservoir of energy, God is reflected in it.
You can't say enough about fishing. Though the sport of kings, it's just what the deadbeat ordered.
I would say the best moment of all was when I caught a 7. 5-lb. perch in my lake. (Answering a reporter who asked him to name the best moment of his Presidency. )
There was a small wooden gazebo built out over the water; Isabelle was sitting in it, staring out across the lake. She looked like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting at the top of her tower for someone to ride up and rescue her. Not that traditional princess behavior was like Isabelle at all. Isabelle with her whip and boots and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time.
Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and the Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban.
When God threw me, a pebble, into this wondrous lake, I disturbed its surface with countless circles. But when I reached the depths, I became very still.
God is in the water of the lake; he is also in the cracked bed of the lake when the lake has dried up. God is in the abundant harvest; he is also in the famine that occurs when the harvest fails. God is in the lightning; he is also in the darkness when the lightning has faded.
My favorite country is America. I love going there! I go in the local lake near where I work on Sundays. It's called Berry Hill.
Lakes, rivers, streams. . . all are water and all travel to the same destination. So it is with religion.
Who doesn’t have a polo shirt? Only somebody from, like, Lake Minnetonka.
All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.
He was going to take a dive into this lake. He just didn’t know it. Cerise rose, finding footing in the soft mud. The water came up to just below her breasts and her wet shirt stuck to her body. William’s gaze snagged on her chest. Yep, keep looking, Lord Bill. Keeeeeep looking.
Far away Tongariro! Green - white thundering Athabasca river of New Zealand! I vowed I would come again down across the Pacific to fish in the swift cold waters of this most beautiful and famous of trout streams. It is something to have striven. It is much to have kept your word.
If he comes in the dark, then it's KYAG Time!" - Harkat Mulds (The Lake of Souls)
The creatures with whom we share the planet and whom, in our arrogance, we wrongly patronize for being lesser forms, they are not brethren, they are not underlings, they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the Earth.
My paintings repeat a feeling about Lake Michigan, or water, or fields. . . it's more like a poem. . . and that's what I want to paint.