Conservation is not just an ideal that we read about; it works.

I consider myself to have been the bridge between the shotgun and the binoculars in bird watching. Before I came along, the primary way to observe birds was to shoot them and stuff them.

The truth of the matter is, the birds could very well live without us, but many -- perhaps all -- of us would find life incomplete, indeed almost intolerable without the birds.

Birds are indicators of the environment. If they are in trouble, we know we'll soon be in trouble.

Vultures are homely, but they clean up all the garbage and that's good. And they're elegant in the sky.

Birds have wings; they're free; they can fly where they want when they want. They have the kind of mobility many people envy.

The more you look, the more you will see.

The other creatures with which we share this world have their rights too, but not speaking our language, they have no voice, no vote; it is our moral duty to take care of them.

Of all the various out-door recreations I have tried, when it comes to genuine, exciting sport, give me hunting with a camera.

Birds are, perhaps, the most eloquent expression of reality.

More birds have adapted to a changing world than have failed. Very few have the narrow tolerance of the ivory-billed woodpecker or the Bachman's warbler.

So please, just let me be egocentric and ask you to stay.

He died with his tie on. Do you think that could be our generation’s equivalent of that old saying about dying with your boots on? Harry Blakemoor died with his tie on. I like it, Larry.

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.

The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary.

Plots come to me at such odd moments, when I am walking along the street, or examining a hat shop… suddenly a splendid idea comes into my head.

Sick of being a prisoner of my childhood, I want to put it behind me.

When I pass my name in such large letters I blush, but at the same time instinctively raise my hat.

There is nothing more beautiful in this world than a healthy, wise old man.

The cut of a garment speaks of intellect and talent and the color of temperament and heart.

I'm so critical of my own work that it's difficult for me to disassociate myself and watch it as an audience.