The desert is an ocean in which no oar is dipped.
The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.
Certainly on the vast windy plain, there was plenty of nothing to be looked at.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean
Above the clouds the sky is always blue.
Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.
I love the sea because it is boundless.
On the prairie one can see the colour of the air.
I loved the sea. I loved steamers and sailboats and surf and sailors. And I yearned and strained to the sea, always the sea, for it is a lovely, vicious lonely thing. In its limitless variety I had a sort of HOME.
We were soon free of the woods and bushes, and fairly upon the broad prairie.
I was on this bridge overlooking the carpet... I think it went all the way back to Oregon.
The map of America is a map of endlessness, of opening out, of forever and ever. No man's face would make you think of it but his hope might, his courage might.
The desert is no longer a landscape, it is a pure form produced by the abstraction of all others.
The car shot forward straight into the circle of light, and suddenly Arthur had a fairly clear idea of what infinity looked like. It wasn’t infinity in fact. Infinity itself looks flat and uninteresting. Looking up into the night sky is looking into infinity—distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless. The chamber into which the aircar emerged was anything but infinite, it was just very very very big, so big that it gave the impression of infinity far better than infinity itself.
...there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.
The sea! The sea! The open sea!, The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
We were going to the long field which today looked like an ocean, although I had never seen an ocean; the grass was moving in the breeze and the cloud shadows passed back and forth and the trees in the distance moved.
Beauty is and always will be blue skies and open highway.
Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on seas and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.
Nowhere, not at sea, does a man feel more lonely than when riding over the far-reaching, seemingly never-ending plains.
You can never have too much sky . You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad. Here there is too much sadness and not enough sky. Butterflies too are few and so are flowers and most things that are beautiful. Still, we take what we can get and make the best of it.
I never get tired of the blue sky.
There are parts of Texas where a fly lives ten thousand years and a man can't die soon enough. Time gets strange there from too much sky, too many miles from crack to crease in the flat surface of the land.
The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.
Sighing restlessly, the boundless sea broke huge rollers into white cream which hissed hungrily up to the tideline.
