Every five years a beech tree produces at least thirty thousand beechnuts …. It is sexually mature at about 80 to 150 years of age, depending on how much light it gets where it’s growing. Assuming it grows to be 400 years old, it can fruit at least sixty times and produce a total of about 1.8 million beechnuts. From these, exactly one will develop into a full-grown tree – and in forest terms, that is a high rate of success, similar to winning the lottery. All the other hopeful embryos are either eaten by animals or broken down into humus by fungi or bacteria.
- The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohllben
… even in relatively liberal parts of the Arab world, such as Morocco, … 77% of men believe it is their duty to exercise guardianship over female relatives. – The Economist
“Worry is impatience for the next horror.””
– Sarah Manguso, from 300 Arguments: Essays.
“Nasty people are incredibly persistent while nice people go off having lives of their own.”
“We humans living on our one planet wring our hands about the brevity of our lives and our mortal restraints, but we do not often think about how improbable it is to be alive at all. Of all the zillions of atoms and molecules in the universe, we have the privilege of being composed of those very, very few atoms that have joined together in the special arrangement to make living matter. We exist in that one-billionth of one-billionth. We are that one grain of sand on the desert.”
““When something quite new and singular is presented … The memory cannot, from all its stores, cast up any image that nearly resembles this strange appearance. It stands alone and by itself in the imagination. (This) constitute(s) the sentiment properly called Wonder, and occasion(s) that staring, and sometimes that rolling of the eyes, that suspension of the breath, and that swelling of the heart, which we may all observe, both in ourselves and others, when wondering at some new object.”
– Adam Smith on Wonder.
“If the world comes to an end, I shall go to Holland. There everything happens fifty years later.”
– 19th-century German poet Heinrich Heine. Mark Twain is said to have adapted this quote to Cincinnati.