Moss Quotes

“There is an ancient conversation going on between mosses and rocks, poetry to be sure. About light and shadow and the drift of continents. This is what has been called the "dialect of moss on stone - an interface of immensity and minute ness, of past and present, softness and hardness, stillness and vibrancy, yin and yan.”
― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses

“Only farmers and summer guests walk on the moss. What they don't know - and it cannot be repeated too often - is that moss is terribly frail. Step on it once and it rises the next time it rains. The second time, it doesn't rise back up. And the third time you step on moss, it dies.”
― Tove Jansson, The Summer Book

“One gram of moss from the forest floor, a piece about the size of a muffin, would harbour 150,000 protozoa, 132,000 tardigrades, 3,000 springtails, 800 rotifers, 500 nematodes, 400 mites, and 200 fly larvae. These numbers tell us something about the astounding quantity of life in a handful of moss.”
― Robin Wall Kimmerer

“Alma knelt in the tall grass and brought her face as near as she could to the stone. And there, rising no more than an inch above the surface of the boulder, she saw a great and tiny forest. Nothing moved within this mossy world. She peered at it so closely that she could smell it- dank and rich and old. Gently, Alma pressed her hand into this tight little timberland. It compacted itself under her palm and then sprang back to form without complaint. There was something stirring about its response to her. The moss felt warm and spongy, several degrees warmer than the air around it, and far more damp than she had expected. It appeared to have its own weather.
Alma put the magnifying lens to her eye and looked again. Now the miniature forest below her gaze sprang into majestic detail. She felt her breath catch. This was a stupefying kingdom. This was the Amazon jungle as seen from the back of a harpy eagle. She rode her eye above the surprising landscape, following its paths in every direction. Here were rich, abundant valleys filled with tiny trees of braided mermaid hair and minuscule, tangled vines. Here were barely visible tributaries running through that jungle, and here was a miniature ocean in a depression in the center of the boulder, where all the water pooled.
Just across this ocean- which was half the size of Alma's shawl- she found another continent of moss altogether. On this new continent, everything was different. This corner of the boulder must receive more sunlight than the other, she surmised. Or slightly less rain? In any case, this was a new climate entirely. Here, the moss grew in mountain ranges the length of Alma's arms, in elegant, pine tree-shaped clusters of darker, more somber green. On another quadrant of the same boulder still, she found patches of infinitesimally small deserts, inhabited by some kind of sturdy, dry, flaking moss that had the appearance of cactus. Elsewhere, she found deep, diminutive fjords- so deep that, incredibly, even now in the month of June- the mosses within were still chilled by lingering traces of winter ice. But she also found warm estuaries, miniature cathedrals, and limestone caves the size of her thumb.
Then Alma lifted her face and saw what was before her- dozens more such boulders, more than she could count, each one similarly carpeted, each one subtly different. She felt herself growing breathless. 'This was the entire world.' This was bigger than a world. This was the firmament of the universe, as seen through one of William Herschel's mighty telescopes. This was planetary and vast. These were ancient, unexplored galaxies, rolling forth in front of her- and it was all right here!”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, The Signature of All Things

“Do you remember how scared we were? How lost and cold and alone? I do. I don't want anyone feeling that helpless.”
― Erin Hunter, Warrior's Refuge

“Rain filtered in scattered drops from the leaves; everywhere, an extraordinary moss ruled supreme over its private kingdom; thick and moving, poised on root and stone, it seemed to glitter.”
― Muriel Barbery, Une rose seule

“The rolling stone rolls echoing from rock to rock; but the rolling stone is dead. The moss is silent because the moss is alive.”
― G.K. Chesterton

“A rolling stone gathers no moss ......but it sure gathers momentum...”
― Ankala Subbarao

“Each tile is curved and has an attractive rough texture. The colour varies from bright vermilion to dull Venetian red. They have the patina of almost two centuries of English sunshine and rain and are patterned with mosses in a wide range of emerald, apple and viridian greens. Any one of them, tastefully framed and hung in a London art gallery, would get rave notices from the critics.”
― Norman Thelwell, A Plank Bridge by a Pool

“They were lying on a bed of soft moss at the edge of The Crooked Forest. He could hear waves crashing along the shore. She was sprawled out in a robe of silver, her hair spread beneath her like a tide pool.”
― Holly Black, How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories

“Sachi scowled. ‘I saw your tattoos, I read the book, I know all about this Order of Dark and Light thingy—so what is it then? You drink blood out of people’s skulls?’
‘Dan Brown has a lot to answer for,’ Moss said on a sigh.”
― Ashlee Nicole Bye, Out of the Shadows

“The cave was cool and silent- thoroughly carpeted- with the most luxuriant mantle of mosses Alma Whittaker had ever seen.
The cave was not merely mossy; it throbbed with moss. It was not merely green; it was frantically green. It was so bright in its verdure that the color nearly spoke, as though- smashing through the world of sight- it wanted to migrate into the world of sound. The moss was a thick, living pelt, transforming every rock surface into a mythical, sleeping beast. Improbably, the deepest corners of the cave glittered the brightest; they were absolutely studded, Alma realized with a gasp, with the jewellike filigree of 'Schistotega pennata.'
Goblin's gold, dragon's gold, elfin gold- 'Schistotega pennata' was that rarest of cave mosses, that false gem that gleams like a cat's eye from within the permanent twilight of geologic shade, that unearthly sparkling plant that needs but the briefest sliver of light each day to sparkle like glory forever, that brilliant trickster whose shining facets have fooled so many travelers over the centuries into believing that they have stumbled upon hidden treasure. But to Alma, this 'was' treasure, more stunning than actual riches, for it bedecked the entire cave in the uncanny, glistering, emerald light that she had only ever before seen in miniature, in glimpses of moss seen through a microscope... yet now she was standing fully within it.”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, The Signature of All Things

“Newly married, Justin and I evacuated the woods where we had once lived as nomads. We would no longer pass sweet breezy days in our sleek tent, in mossy hills and sun, showering in waterfalls. That era was now our memory, a shared dream.”
― Aspen Matis, Your Blue Is Not My Blue: A Missing Person Memoir

“More delicately, more intricately fashioned than any grasses of the field, more subtle in texture than any seaweed of the sea, more thickly woven, and with a sort of intimate passionate patience, by the creative spirit within it, than any forest leaves or any lichen upon any tree trunk, this sacred moss of Somersetshire would remain as a perfectly satisfying symbol of life if all other vegetation were destroyed out of that country. There is a religious reticence in the nature of moss.”
― John Cowper Powys, A Glastonbury Romance

“As she drove away she thought about the flowers she'd sketched for him. Billy buttons. She'd drawn one after the other, bright balls of yellow on skinny stems, over and over again, covering the paper, except for the far right corner where she'd written their meaning.
My gratitude.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“But this is certain, that on the broken rocks of the foreground in the crystalline groups the mosses seem to set themselves consentfully and deliberately to the task of producing the most exquisite harmonies of color in their power. They will not conceal the form of the rock, but will gather over it in little brown bosses, like small cushions of velvet made of mixed threads of dark ruby silk and gold, rounded over more subdued films of white and grey, with lightly crisped and curled edges like hoar frost on fallen leaves, and minute clusters of upright orange stalks with pointed caps, and fibres of deep green, and gold, and faint purple passing into black, all woven together, and following with unimaginable fineness of gentle growth the undulation of the stone they cherish, until it is charged with color so that it can receive no more; and instead of looking rugged, or cold, or stern, as anything that a rock is held to be at heart, it seems to be clothed with a soft, dark leopard skin, embroidered with arabesque of purple and silver.”
― John Ruskin, Modern Painters: Volume 4. Of Mountain Beauty

“Some people consider moss a nuisance, but I find it to be utterly beautiful in its simplicity. Moss symbolizes a charitable nature and a mother's love, and every time I see it, it makes me remember my mama. She's the one who taught me---and Bee---all about the language of flowers.”
― Heather Webber, In the Middle of Hickory Lane

“Cardan removes his glamour, glad to be free of it, drinking in the fragrance of moss and loam. The moonlight shines down, reflecting off leaf and stone.”
― Holly Black, How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories

“Most people'll run from their own mother to get to hug death by the neck. They cant wait to see him.”
― Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men

“Only six? Mon Dieu!’ Cleo ceased her pacing and whirled around to face the two Trackers, eyes narrowed, hands on hips. ‘I suppose this is all rather exciting for the two of you, non?’ Cleo’s usually melodic French accent was growing sharper and sharper in pitch with every word. ‘You…’—she nodded at Moss—‘finally get to see some action! And you…’—she turned her attention to Julian, hazel eyes narrowed—‘I know you loathed Iceland, and poof! here you are, back with your buddy, enjoying the sunshine!’
Julian and Moss exchanged exasperated glances.
‘Meanwhile, all of my hard work is going to waste. Do you know how difficult it is to manipulate a person’s lifeline? Hmm? To set up every single tiny decision and event so that they get to their death at the right time? And so that they die in exactly the right way?’ She glanced from one boy to the other as if daring them to contradict her. ‘There’s a reason we assign natural deaths and accidents to certain people and murders to others! This girl was supposed to die in an accident—now the lifelines of everyone around her have changed. Everything is out of balance.' She threw her hands up. 'Again!”
― Ashlee Nicole Bye, Out of the Shadows

“A long line of statues accompany the path, covered in moss and white blotches. But they’re not the angelic forms I had expected. They cower, slight and childlike.”
― Rebecca Delphine, Shoal: A Thanet Writers Anthology

“Zonlicht was voor hem geen directe levensbehoefte. Hij was als mos: hij had slechts een paar lichtstraaltjes nodig en een plek om zich aan vast te klampen.”
― Laurens van den Broek, Maanscherf

“I am going to have a long talk with Bombadil; such a talk as I have not had in all my time. He is a moss-gatherer, and I have been a stone doomed to rolling. But my rolling days are ending, and now we shall have much to say to one another.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

“The granularity of bones in
a body. A forest with galaxies of moss.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta, Ghost Tracks

“I follow him behind the throne and off the dais, where a small door is set against the stone wall, half hidden by ivy. I've never been here before.

Cardan sweeps aside the ivy, and we go in.

It is a small room, clearly intended for intimate meetings and assignations. Its walls are covered in moss, with small glowing mushrooms climbing them, casting a pale white light on us. There's a low couch upon which people could sit or recline, as the situation called for.

We are alone in a way we have not been alone for a long time, and when he takes a step toward me, my heart skips a beat.”
― Holly Black, The Wicked King

“Moss was one of those things that, once one was aware of it, was everywhere. She knew its subspecies from botanical books: bearded moss, bog moss, grizzled emerald, twisted moss. Reindeer moss. Emerald tufted stubble. Toothless moss. Maidenhair. Wooly fringe. It was the earth's pantry, feeding its surroundings. Expansive green mother. Lavender recalled one species in her own garden that, to the touch, felt like her mother's hair. Mother-hair moss. In a floriography book, Lavender had read that moss stood for motherhood, charity. All the more to adore.
She perused the ground, found:
pocket moss
pincushion bristle
wasted-tea moss
stubble-on-a-boy's-chin moss
prickly oracle moss
heart's tussle

Oh, the tales moss told.”
― Jeanette Lynes, The Apothecary's Garden

“The cold was what hit me first.

Brisk, crisp cold, laced with loam and rotting things.

In the twilight, the world beyond the narrow cave mouth was a latticework of red and gold and brown and green, the trees thick and old, the mossy ground strewn with rocks and boulders that cast long shadows.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Wings and Ruin

“Endure it. Then transform it into something greater, something that surpasses the suffering. Through the journey amid the moss and flow, comes the self-discovery..”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“Endure it. Then transform it into something greater, something that will surpass the suffering. Through the journey amid the moss and flow, comes the self-discovery..”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“I found myself noticing familiar plants and features as we travelled through the woods. Some brownies, for instance, had stone dwellings built into the earth--- closer to cellars than houses, to my eye--- roofed in densely interwoven fern fronds. Doubtless others dwelt in the canopy, for when I looked up, I saw the telltale silver gleam of impossibly narrow bridges connecting the trees like spiderthread. But as we moved away from the castle, I saw less of this glittering architecture, and more of the humble, cellarlike variety. I also noted that I was growing increasingly adept at spotting moss-brownies, as I had begun to call them in my head, for the mossy caps they wore. These small, black-eyed creatures, whose bodies were often covered in moss as well, could be seen peeking at us from behind branches, or sometimes in plain view upon a green stone or bough, where they were surprisingly difficult to detect.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales