Southerners love a good tale. They are born reciters, great memory retainers, diary keepers, letter exchangers . . . great talkers.
When they turned off, it was still early in the pink and green fields. The fumes of morning, sweet and bitter, sprang up where they walked. The insects ticked softly, their strength in reserve; butterflies chopped the air, going to the east, and the birds flew carelessly and sang by fits and starts, not the way they did in the evening in sustained and drowsy songs.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote captures the serene beauty of a morning landscape filled with nature's sounds and sights.
Eudora Welty's quote paints a vivid picture of a tranquil morning in nature, emphasizing the subtle contrasts and gentle life of the surroundings. The imagery of 'pink and green fields' alongside 'sweet and bitter' morning fumes illustrates the richness of life that can be experienced in the early hours, where everything is fresh and alive, yet also transient. The delicate descriptions of insects, butterflies, and birds evoke a sense of peace and a moment of stillness that one can find in nature, inviting reflection on the beauty of life around us.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
Sharing this quote during a nature retreat can inspire participants to appreciate the small details of their surroundings.
More from Eudora Welty
All quotes →Writing a story or a novel is one way of discovering sequence in experience, of stumbling upon cause and effect in the happenings of a writer's own life.
A sheltered life can be a daring life as well. For all serious daring starts from within.
For the source of the short story is usually lyrical. And all writers speak from, and speak to, emotions eternally the same in all of us: love, pity, terror do not show favorites or leave any of us out.
The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order the continuous thread of revelation.
The first act of insight is throw away the labels. In fiction, while we do not necessarily write about ourselves, we write out of ourselves, using ourselves; what we learn from, what we are sensitive to, what we feel strongly about--these become our characters and go to make our plots. Characters in fiction are conceived from within, and they have, accordingly, their own interior life; they are individuals every time.
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A narrow pond would form in the orchard, water clear as air covering grass and black leaves and fallen branches, all around it black leaves and drenched grass and fallen branches, and on it, slight as an image in an eye, sky, clouds, trees, our hovering faces and our cold hands.
The sky is the daily bread of the eyes.
Autumn clouds, vague and obscure; The evening, lonely and chill. I felt the dampness on my garments, But saw no spot, and heard no sound of rain.
Nature never appeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless. There is no intelligence where there is no need of change.