欧宝娱乐

“My mother always wanted to live near the water," she said. "She said it's the one thing that brings us all together. That I can have my toe in the ocean off the coast of Maine, and a girl my age can have her toe in the ocean off the coast of Africa, and we would be touching. On opposite sides of the world.”
― Megan Miranda, Vengeance

“I dream dark dreams.

I dream of a figure moving through the forest, of children flying from his path, of young women crying at his coming. I dream of snow and ice, of bare branches and moon-cast shadows. I dream of dancers floating in the air, stepping lightly even in death, and my own pain is but a faint echo of their suffering as I run. My blood is black on the snow, and the edges of the world are silvered with moonlight. I run into the darkness, and he is waiting.

I dream in black and white, and I dream of him.

I dream of Caleb, who does not exist, and I am afraid.”
― John Connolly

“My grandfather once told her if you couldn't read with cold feet, there wouldn't be a literate soul in the state of Maine.”
― Marilynne Robinson, Gilead

“There was a young lady from Gloucester
Who complained that her parents both bossed her,
So she ran off to Maine.
Did her parents complain?
Not at all -- they were glad to have lost her.”
― John Ciardi, The Hopeful Trout and Other Limericks

“Their conversation ceased abruptly with the entry of an oddly-shaped man whose body resembled a certain vegetable. He was a thickset fellow with calloused and jaundiced skin and a patch of brown hair, a frizzy upheaval. We will call him Bell Pepper. Bell Pepper sidled up beside The Drippy Man and looked at the grilled cheese in his hand. The Drippy Man, a bit uncomfortable at the heaviness of the gaze, politely apologized and asked Bell Pepper if he would like one.

鈥淲hy is one of your legs fatter than the other?鈥� asked Bell Pepper.

The Drippy Man realized Bell Pepper was not looking at his sandwich but towards the inconsistency of his leg sizes.

鈥淵ou always get your kicks pointing out defects?鈥� retorted The Drippy Man.

鈥淛ust curious. Never seen anything like it before.鈥�

鈥淚 was raised not to feel shame and hide my legs in baggy pants.鈥�

鈥淪o you flaunt your deformity by wearing short shorts?鈥�

鈥淟ike you flaunt your pockmarks by not wearing a mask?鈥�

Bell Pepper backed away, kicking wide the screen door, making an exit to a porch over hanging a dune of sand that curved into a jagged upward jab of rock.

鈥淗e is quite sensitive,鈥� commented The Dry Advisor.

鈥淲ho is he?鈥�

鈥淎 fellow who once manipulated the money in your wallet but now curses the fellow who does.”
― Jeff Phillips, Turban Tan

“Write, drink and be merry!”
― Maureen A. Miller

“They were walking along a roadway of great slabs of stone set down one after another, the beginning and end of which they could take in at a glance, a road rising from and heading toward nowhere now.
"You can't get there from here," William said, using a Down East accent. "Anymore." Maine, they thought of Maine, then. Evidently this truncated road could still carry them as far away and as long ago as that.”
― Nancy Clark, A Way from Home: A Novel

“The middle part of Maine, all the way from Bar Harbor to Portland, hangs down like stalactites that drip little islands into the Atlantic. It's divided by rivers and harbors with cozy names that sound like brands of bubble bath or places boats sink in folks songs.”
― Holmes, Linda

“I believed that the woods were not tenantless, but choke-full of honest spirits as good as myself any day鈥� not an empty chamber in which chemistry was left to work alone, but an inhabited house. It suggested, too, that the same experience always gives birth to the same sort of belief or religion. One revelation has been made to the Indian, another to the white man. I have much to learn of the Indian, nothing of the missionary. I am not sure but all that would tempt me to teach the Indian my religion would be his promise to teach me his. Long enough I had heard of irrelevant things; now at length I was glad to make acquaintance with the light that dwells in rotten wood.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Canoeing in the Wilderness

“Nature is not intentionally theatrical. The drama we sometimes see in landscapes is a projection of something in us, the trace of a nagging fear that we do not belong in nature, that we are no match for the forces that brought us into being”
― Christopher Camuto, Time and Tide in Acadia: Seasons on Mount Desert Island

“Beautiful as they are, these tidal places are often moody and strange. Sometimes you can feel the bittersweet tang of your mortality rubbing up against a beachhead of infinity”
― Christopher Camuto, Time and Tide in Acadia: Seasons on Mount Desert Island

“The doctor was a frequent visitor at Miss Trumball's establishment, preferring it to the Lanchester house, whose girls had a saturnine disposition in his opinion, as if imported from Maine or other gloom-loving provinces.”
― Colson Whitehead, The Underground Railroad

“Portland could have been any city. Port Clyde was too uncluttered to be anything else. There is a reason Stephen King sets his stories in little Maine towns. They are too quiet to be believed wholly savory.”
― Thomm Quackenbush, Holidays with Bigfoot

“Life here in this part of Maine is almost inconceivable without wood, and woods. We burn it for heat. Some cut it for a living. Many earn their livelihood from it by making paper, if not toboggans, snowshoes, apple boxes, or canoes. But it all comes from trees. Trees are our lifeblood, in more ways that one. And that is the problem. There are woods, and there is wood, and the two have different uses.”
― Bernd Heinrich, A Year in the Maine Woods

“Brother," Cap said, "he's a Pig-nut!"
"Pig-nut?" I asked.
"Pig-nut," Cap repeated. "You can tell a man with brains he's wrong and he'll try to fix things up: but you take and tell a pig-nut he's wrong, and he'll spend the rest of his life trying to have something heavy fall on you when you ain't looking."
- From Kennebunk born Pulitzer Prize winner Kenneth Roberts' 1933 novel Rabble in Arms.”
― Kenneth Roberts, Rabble in Arms

“Spring was madness in New England, all the world cone to love at once.”
― Alice Hoffman, The Rules of Magic

“We had been told in Bangor of a man who lived alone, a sort of hermit, at that dam [on the Allegash], to take care of it, who spent his time tossing a bullet from one hand to the other, for want of employment. This sort of tit-for-tat intercourse between his two hands, bandying to and fro a leaden subject, seems to have been his symbol for society.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Canoeing in the Wilderness

“Ah, New England. An amalgam of picket fences and crumbling bricks; Ivy League schools and dropped Rs; social tolerance and the Salem witch trials, Henry David Thoreau and Stephen King, P-town rainbows and mill-town rust; Norman Rockwell and Aerosmith; lobster and Moxie; plus the simmering aromas of a million melting pot cuisines originally brought here by immigrants from everywhere else searching for new ways to live.

It鈥檚 a place where rapidly-growing progressive cities full of the 鈥榳icked smaaht鈥� coexist alongside blight-inflicted Industrial Revolution landscapes full of the 鈥榳icked poor鈥�. A place of forested mountains, roaring rivers, crystalline lakes, urban sprawl, and a trillion dollar stores. A place of seasonal tourism beach towns where the wild, rank scent of squishy seaweed casts its cryptic spell along the vast and spindrift-misted seacoast, while the polished yachts of the elite glisten like rare jewels on the horizon, just out of reach.

Where there are fiery autumn hues and leaves that need raking. Powder snow ski slopes and icy windshields that need scraping. Crisp daffodil mornings and mud season. Beach cottage bliss and endless miles of soul-sucking summer traffic .

Perceived together, the dissonant nuances of New England stir the imagination in compelling and chromatic whorls.”
― Eric J. Taubert

“Branson is the Maine of Missouri. We don't have Murder, She Wrote, but we do have at least one killer writer.”
― Jarod Kintz, Me and memes and memories

“We dare not be original; our American Pine must be cut to the trim pattern of the English Yew, though the Pine bleed at every clip. This poet tunes his lyre at the harp of Goethe, Milton, Pope, or Tennyson. His songs might better be sung on the Rhine than the Kennebec. They are not American in form or feeling; they have not the breath of our air; the smell of our ground is not in them. Hence our poet seems cold and poor. He loves the old mythology; talks about Pluto鈥攖he Greek devil,鈥斺€� the Fates and Furies鈥攚itches of old time in Greece,鈥�-but would blush to use our mythology, or breathe the name in verse of our Devil, or our own Witches, lest he should be thought to believe what he wrote. The mother and sisters, who with many a pinch and pain sent the hopeful boyto college, must turn over the Classical Dictionary before they can 铿乶d out what the youth would be at in his rhymes. Our Poet is not deep enough to see that Aphrodite came from the ordinary waters, that Homer only hitched into rhythm and furnished the accomplishment of verse to street talk, nursery tales, and old men鈥檚 gossip, in the Ionian towns; he thinks what is common is unclean. So he sings of Corinth and Athens, which he never saw, but has not a word to say of Boston, and Fall River, and Baltimore, and New York, which are just as meet for song. He raves of Thermopylae and
Marathon, with never a word for Lexington and Bunkerhill, for Cowpens, and Lundy鈥檚 Lane, and Bemis鈥檚 Heights. He loves to tell of the Ilyssus, of 鈥� smooth sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,鈥� yet sings not of the Petapsco, the Susquehannah, the Aroostook, and the Willimantick. He prates of the narcissus, and the daisy, never of American dandelions andbue-eyed grass; he dwells on the lark and the nightingale, but has not a thought for the brown thrasher and the bobolink, who every morning in June rain down such showers of melody on his affected head. What a lesson Burns teaches us addressing his 鈥渞ough bur thistle,鈥� his daisy, 鈥渨ee crimson tippit thing,鈥� and 铿乶ding marvellous poetry in the mouse whose nest his plough turned over! Nay, how beautifully has even our sweet Poet sung of our own Green river, our waterfowl,of the blue and fringed gentian, the glory of autumnal days.”
― Massachussetts Quarterly Review, 1849

“By the time we got to Ferrington, I was laughing at Will鈥檚 stories about Rockpoint High. It seemed the kids gave the teachers a hard time; they were always cutting up and saying funny things. Will was good at imitating their Down-East accents, but I had a feeling Susan was right about his not having any friends. It sounded as if he spent most of his school day watching and listening.”
― Mary Downing Hahn, Look for Me by Moonlight

“We will be old and gray before ten Maine minutes go by. Mainers invented tantric sex when they had a quickie.”
― Thomm Quackenbush, Holidays with Bigfoot

“Slippery as was Knox's land grab of the entire Waldo Patent, nepotism and patronage were common in those days.”
― Nancy Rubin Stuart, Defiant Brides: The Untold Story of Two Revolutionary-Era Women and the Radical Men They Married

“After crossing most of the North American continent our destination was Goldfield Nevada, a place in the middle of nowhere that I had been to some years before. This ghost town held a special place in my heart and I still feel nostalgic remembering how I got there from LA when I was in my teens. Now as we rolled into town I had the same feeling and thought that my son鈥檚 would capture the same aura that I felt years before.
Entering the 鈥淪anta Fe Club,鈥� an authentic old saloon, we were greeted as if we were neighbors that had just stopped in for a drink. It was as if I had never left but of course that wasn鈥檛 true. The bartender asked if we were there for some chicken? I had no idea what he was talking about until he explained that a chicken truck had run off the road and rolled over just outside of town.
It took some doing but some of the men in town caught, killed, cleaned and plucked a wack of them and brought them to the saloon for frying. I assumed that he meant that he had fried the chickens and best of was that he offered them free to anyone who came through the doors.
I still don鈥檛 know if they tasted so good because we were hungry or that they were free. The story of the chicken truck was told for years afterward but he also told me that he remembered me from before, when I was the kid looking for the publisher of the five-page newspaper. 鈥淲ell, he鈥檚 gone and is now in the cemetery but we鈥檙e not, so have some more chicken鈥� were his lasting words of wisdom!”
― Captain Hank Bracker, Seawater series

“From here, to the south and west, one island leads to another, all the way to Frenchboro and Swans Island and Isle au Haut, as this landscape toys with the idea of islands until the sea says enough and there is only water”
― Christopher Camuto, Time and Tide in Acadia: Seasons on Mount Desert Island

“And if one had a sorrow, Maine was the best place to be.”
― Ruth Sawyer, Daddles: The Story of a Plain Hound-dog

“Above the snap and pop of the fire, the wind howled, prowling around the inn, snooping at the windows and whining at the door. The candle flames quivered in the draft, melting the wax into strange shapes.”
― Mary Downing Hahn, Look for Me by Moonlight

“New England is a dream handspun by good vibes.”
― Lakshya Bharadwaj

“Florida's weather on the coast comes in, wipes you out like a giant with a weed whacker and zips out. Maine winters creep in like a python on little cat feet, take years to squeeze the life out of you, and never seem to leave.”
― Robert Karl Skoglund

“You can鈥檛 get lost. You take yourself with you wherever you go.”
― Donna Galanti, Loon Cove Summer