Island Quotes

“The island is ours. Here, in some way, we are young forever.”
― E. Lockhart, We Were Liars

“Oh", she thought, "how horrible it is that people have to grow up-and marry-and change!”
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of the Island

“Regret and remorse” is a dialectic issue about what has been done, about what should have been done and about what should not have been done. ( “Island of regret. Island of remorse” )”
― Erik Pevernagie

“No man is an island, entire of itself.”
― John Donne, No man is an island – A selection from the prose

“Mist to mist, drops to drops. For water thou art, and unto water shalt thou return.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“Islands are metaphors of the heart, no matter what poet says otherwise.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Sexing the Cherry

“Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge.
Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat.
Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“Give us this day our daily Faith, but deliver us, dear God, from Belief.”
― Aldous Huxley, Island

“The isolation spins its mysterious cocoon, focusing the mind on one place, one time, one rhythm - the turning of the light. The island knows no other human voices, no other footprints. On the Offshore Lights you can live any story you want to tell yourself, and no one will say you're wrong: not the seagulls, not the prisms, not the wind.”
― M.L. Stedman, The Light Between Oceans

“[H]e could see the island of Manhattan off to the left. The towers were jammed together so tightly, he could feel the mass and stupendous weight.Just think of the millions, from all over the globe, who yearned to be on that island, in those towers, in those narrow streets! There it was, the Rome, the Paris, the London of the twentieth century, the city of ambition, the dense magnetic rock, the irresistible destination of all those who insist on being where things are happening-and he was among the victors!”
― Tom Wolfe, The Bonfire of the Vanities

“Together they spent their whole lives waiting for their luck to change, as though luck were some fabulous tide that would one day flood and consecrate the marshes of our island, christening us in the iridescent ointments of a charmed destiny.”
― Pat Conroy, The Prince of Tides

“A sound of laughter was heard-they turned sharply. Vera Claythorne was standing in the yard. She cried out in a high shrill voice, shaken with wild bursts of laughter:
"Do they keep bees on this island? Tell me that. Where do we go for honey? Ha! ha!"
They stared at her uncomprehendingly. It was as though the sane well-balanced girl had gone mad right before their eyes. She went on in that high unnatural voice:
"Don't stare like that! As though you thought I was mad. It's sane enough what I'm asking. Bees, hives, bees! Oh, don't you understand? Haven't you read that idiotic rhyme? It's up in all of your bedrooms-put it there for you to study! We might have come here straightaway if we'd had sense. Seven little soldiers chopping up sticks. And the next verse, I know the whole thing by heart, I tell you! Six little soldier boys playing with a hive. And that's why I'm asking-do they keep bees on this island- isn't it damned funny...?”
― Agatha Christie, And Then There Were None

“It has been raining here for ten years.I keep an accurate record of time and can state this with no fear of contradiction.”
― Alastair Bruce, Wall of Days

“The sweet-smelling aroma of the island spices still hung in the air. It filled his nostrils and titillated his appetite all over again. His appetite drove him mad for something much more than food.”
― Luke A.M. Brown, The Non-Silence of the Lamb: Contemporary Version

“They kissed in the middle of the sidewalk, letting the crowds of people flow around them like water around an island.”
― Lawren Leo, Love's Shadow: Nine Crooked Paths

“Man muss wohl als Frau auch immer ein bisschen Nazi sein.”
― Hallgrimur Helgason

“The United States is a giant island of freedom, achievement, wealth, and prosperity in a world hostile to our values.”
― Phyllis Schlafly

“The island and its women loom large in the dreams of local folks, who sometimes wake up sweating from visions of witches in black (though the island women never wore black) or of crows watchful in treetops, or of swamp streams bubbling up through the floorboards of their houses. It is said the island, where healing waters percolate to the surface, was a place where women shared one another's dreams, a place where women did what they wanted.”
― Bonnie Jo Campbell, The Waters

“The land of Maren, my island,
calls to me in my fretful sleep.
Like dancing ribbons of light,
it winds its memories around
my starved, yearning torso,
tearing at my aching heart.

“I am twirling now,
unravelling a ribbon memory
of light, warm sand
and cresting waves around me.

“To feel at breath with my
unique, native land
and to retrace my footprints
across its terrains would be ...
heavenly.”
― Susan L. Marshall, All the Hope We Carry

“No matter how hard one tried, this island was not a place of leaving easily. It clung to a person like a dee. He was still here, always still here”
― Emma Seckel, The Wild Hunt

“No matter how hard one tried, this island was not a place of leaving easily. It clung to a person like dew. He was still here, always still here”
― Emma Seckel, The Wild Hunt

“You don’t sound happy, mo ghrád,” he had told her over her landlady’s telephone, about a year after she’d left. She wasn’t, not even then, though there was still the buoyant hope that one day it would slip into place like a gear in a clock. But she hadn’t gone in search of happiness. Happiness was at home, on the island, in the midnight suns of summer, the winter skies dancing with lights...”
― Emma Seckel, The Wild Hunt

“Paradise Isle by Stewart Stafford

In superstitious guidance,
I discovered your shallows,
Ingénues' on naked dunes,
Edenites of Paradise Isle.

Tragedy and chance are but pirates;
One welcome, both shocking rogues,
Am I a castaway or a sleepwalker?
Let motivations as explorers gather.

Leaving footprints only we can see,
The wet sand, a camouflage ally,
We quit the beach and head inland,
As crabs in shade to the waterline crawl.

© Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“From north to south, the island is just ten miles long, but it feels like a continent in its own right. There are bays and inlets, coves and mudflats, a winery, a berry farm, a llama farm, sixteen restaurants, a café that makes homemade cinnamon rolls and the best coffee I've ever tasted, and a market whose wares include locally produced raspberry wine and organic Swiss chard picked just hours before making its appearance in the produce section.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“Through a break in the willows, if the fog isn't too heavy, you can see the edge of what everyone around here calls the Waters, where a sort of island rises up, accessible by a bridge three planks wide, strung between oil barrels floating on the watery muck. There, under the branches of sycamores, oaks, and hackberries, the green-stained Rose Cottage sinks on the two nearest corners so that it appears to be squatting above the bridge, preparing to pitch itself into the muck. Beyond the cottage, the trees give way to a mosquito-infested no-man's-land of tussocks, marshes, shallows, hummocks, pools, streams, and springs a half mile wide between solid ground and the Old Woman River. This is where Herself harvested wild rice, cattails, staghorn sumac, and a thousand other plants.”
― Bonnie Jo Campbell, The Waters

“Deep blue water and emerald green islands capped by evergreen forests. Rocky bays and serene white ferries chugging past pods of orcas. A tiny town of quaint clapboard buildings painted in a rainbow of hues. A harbor clogged with bobbing sailboats. It looked idyllic, soaked in natural beauty. Serene. It was a world away from Paris, or Texas, for that matter. Georgia took the phone and studied the photos, mesmerized. She'd never seen anything like it. She felt a longing tug in her chest, something she couldn't quite articulate. Something was calling to her there. She had to go.
Phoebe took her phone back and read avidly for a few minutes. "It says here that San Juan Island is known for pods of orcas, kayaking, a lavender farm, cidery, vineyard, shellfish farm, restaurants with Pacific Northwest cuisine, and farmers markets.”
― Rachel Linden, Recipe for a Charmed Life

“You have no clue what is out there."

- Finkle”
― Stacey L. Pierson, Dark Descendants

“Maelstrom Rock by Stewart Stafford

O, obsidian jagged island,
This playground of the gods,
Distant white novice waves,
In warhorse slam into rock.

Be this witchcraft or wit's raft?
Conducting the vast elements,
With lava-hot passion mustered,
Spinning whirlpool shipwreck tales.

A walker between the winds comes,
Both Nature and shaman within it,
Of coral and shell and weed growth,
Compassion at flaying whip's end.

Bid goodbye to the demi-paradise!
On the gloomy prow, watch it flee,
An aria's dreams of magic ebbing,
Freed thralls clasp earthly chains.

© Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Sanibel Island is an alluring paradox. A primordial landscape, buzzing with tourists. A tropical hideaway where storybook sunsets heal souls, and violent hurricanes destroy property. A cherished corner of Old Florida, in the midst of a modernizing metamorphosis. Where unfettered wildness thrives, even as ecological challenges mount. A dream place where I can explore the boundaries between coastal textures, the rhythm of nature, and the stuff of humankind; and create art that is honest and authentic.”
― Eric J. Taubert

“And that was how we flew into the vast blue, into the exploding sun, looking for a heart-shaped island circled by a massive dragon, where an Electric Woman opened glass boxes to turn back the hands of time.”
― Charlson Ong, Of That Other Country We Now Speak and Other Stories