Swamp Quotes

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I'll never see Ivy alive again.But she's still everywhere. In every drop of bubbling swamp water. In every leaf hanging from every tree. In every speck of swamp mud. In every blade of grass. In every gift she left behind for me: two sacks of miscellaneous objects, a grass bracelet, her home, her love, and my life.A swamp angel named Ivy lived in my backyard. And now she doesn't.But wherever she is, I know she's watching me.Just like the angel she's always been.

Colleen Boyd
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To love a swamp, however, is to love what is muted and marginal, what exists in the shadows, what shoulders its way out of mud and scurries along the damp edges of what is most commonly praised. And sometimes its invisibility is a blessing. Swamps and bogs are places of transition and wild growth, breeding grounds, experimental labs where organisms and ideas have the luxury of being out of the spotlight, where the imagination can mutate and mate, send tendrils into and out of the water.

Barbara Hurd, Stirring the Mud: On Swamps, Bogs, and Human Imagination
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Get me in here. Get me in here now!" I order. I have to get out of the swamp before it happens again.But it does.I feel it before I see it. Dozens of thick, razor-sharp needles pierce my right leg, sinking into my skin. It hurts like nothing I've felt before, and a strangled scream of pain escapes me.Babette whips her head around, the motor forgotten. "Rylan! What is it!""Get me out! GET ME OUT!" I scream. Fearfully, I look over my shoulder, but seconds later I wish I hadn't as the attacker comes to the surface. It has a scaly body, sharp claws, feral eyes, and a long, ugly, sneering snout that's clamped around my leg.Melanie identifies it with a shriek. "GATOR!

Colleen Boyd, Swamp Angel
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In a swamp, as in meditation, you begin to glimpse how elusive, how inherently insubstantial, how fleeting our thoughts are, our identities. There is magic in this moist world, in how the mind lets go, slips into sleepy water, circles and nuzzles the banks of palmetto and wild iris, how it seeps across dreams, smears them into the upright world, rots the wood of treasure chests, welcomes the body home.

Barbara Hurd, Stirring the Mud: On Swamps, Bogs, and Human Imagination
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When I would recreate myself I seek the darkest wood the thickest and most interminable and to the citizen most dismal swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place - a sanctum sanctorum. There is the strength the marrow of Nature.

Henry David Thoreau
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The villagers marked the time in two ways: before the swamp and after. What came before was good. And all that came after was not.

Melanie Crowder
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So nice to be stuck up here again, wouldn't you agree Agres.” “Not really no.” Agres replied “Day three is it” Agres nodded they where huddled up behind a rock as the cold wind blew around their small fire “I didn't really miss being stuck up here did you?” “I bet Tria, you'd rather be stuck in a swamp again wouldn't you?”“Actually I'd gladly take being stuck in a swamp over being stranded on a cold mountain any day. You hear that Dilmore!

Charon Lloyd-Roberts, PUTSCH. Volume I
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How sad, ye Gods, how sad the world is at evening, how mysterious the mists over the swamps! You will know it when you have wandered astray in those mists, when you have suffered greatly before dying, when you have walked through the world carrying an unbearable burden. You know it too when you are weary and ready to leave this earth without regret; its mists; its swamps and its rivers; ready to give yourself into the arms of death with a light heart, knowing that death alone can comfort you.

Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita
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Even though this princess loved the oak and the castle and her mother, the queen, she tired of the beautiful swamp, of her surroundings. You see, as she grew she came to realize that if she looked too closely, she could recognize evil things in the swamp as well as all the extraordinary things she loved. There were hurtful, malicious things, things that grew quickly, quick enough to ensnare her and smother her if she wasn't careful, maybe even quick enough to steal her life away.

Sara Stark, An Untold Want
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That is the normal succession of things in this part of the world; you can see the various stages all over Scratch Flat. There is, for example, a small red maple swamp above my house on the northwest side of the drumlin. The swamp was probably a pond sixty years ago, but now in summer, unless you know your trees, you cannot distinguish it from the surrounding woodlands. It is only in spring, when the groundwater levels are high, that the remnant of the ice sheet makes itself apparent. Then the waters rise around the trunks of the red maple trees and, after reaching a critical level, run down across the small meadow to the north of my house.

John Hanson Mitchell, Ceremonial Time: Fifteen Thousand Years on One Square Mile
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