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“The tops of mountains are among the unfinished parts of the globe, whither it is a slight insult to the gods to climb and pry into their secrets, and try their effect on our humanity. Only daring and insolent men, perchance, go there.”
― Henry David Thoreau, The Maine Woods

“What do you mean 'has to be?' and what are you smiling at?" I stopped contributing to this ridiculous dance. I grabbed the teapot and began to fill it with water in the sink.
Suddenly I felt the slight weight go this body against my back and the corner of his mouth brushed adjacent my ear.
"How human you are," he whispered.”
― Jes Dory, Isle

“My face flushed scarlet. I was a stranger in my own skin. I had ever felt this kind of anger in my life. Fort and confusion grew. Its sensation was an overwhelming concoction of hate. The only things I knew - the only things keeping me remotely calm- was the following litany.

My name is Eleanora Ada Stone. I was moved from home to home for seventeen years. I am now living on this god-forsaken island in Maine. I was being kept from a world of secrets. I have abilities. I am not human. I do not know what I am.”
― Jes Dory, Isle

“What do you mean 'has to be?' and what are you smiling at?" I stopped contributing to this ridiculous dance. I grabbed the teapot and began to fill it with water in the sink. Suddenly I felt the slight weight of his body against my back and the corner of his mouth brushed against my ear. "How human you are," he whispered.”
― Jes Dory, Isle

“Oh my," she said as though to herself. "The rumors are true, you have been kept in the dark.”
― Jes Dory, Isle

“Most local cooks have two ideas about what to do with food. They either fry it, or else they make chowder out of it.”
― Louise Dickinson Rich, We Took to the Woods

“In spite of all that is said, and more especially written, about the crabbed New Englander, New Englanders, like all ordinary people, are nice. Their manner of proffering a favor is sometimes on the crusty side, but that is much more often diffidence than surliness.”
― Louise Dickinson Rich, We Took to the Woods

“Adventure, free of actual risk, is hard to produce.”
― Louise Dickinson Rich, We Took to the Woods

“One never knows the idyllic charm of our northern woods who has not seen them in April, when it is all a feast of birds and buds and waking life. Midsummer does not compare with this. This month belongs to the birds and flowers; but most of all to the robin. I cannot tell this story without giving the robins the place which I know they must have had in it, â€� great husky fellows, as red as blood in the lifting between showers that made a golden sunset,
sitting high in the treetops and splitting their throats with their rain-carol, singing in jubilance at being back again, glad to find once more the corner of the earth that they were born in, and trolling forth such lusty music that all their pertness and swagger and pilfering of a later date is forgiven in advance. Of all the birds of springtime, I would like best to be the robin just getting back to his old home; for it is brave and blithe and bonny that he is, and he is April to all of us in the far north.”
― Fannie Hardy Eckstorm, The Penobscot Man

“There, on the far side of of the Atlantic, would be Maine, but despite the shared ocean, her island and this one were worlds apart. Where Inishmaan was gray and brown, its fragile man-made soil supporting only the hardiest of low-growing plants, the fertile Quinnipeague invited tall pines in droves, not to mention vegetables, flowers, and improbable, irrepressible herbs. Lifting her head, eyes closed now, she breathed in the damp Irish air and the bit of wood smoke that drifted on the cold ocean wind. Quinnipeague smelled of wood smoke, too, since early mornings there could be chilly, even in summer. But the wood smoke would clear by noon, giving way to the smell of lavender, balsam, and grass. If the winds were from the west, there would be fry smells from the Chowder House; if from the south, the earthiness of the clam flats; if from the northeast, the purity of sweet salt air.”
― Barbara Delinsky, Sweet Salt Air