pruning

'I have had almost every rose that you can grow,' she says, 'and some died, but at least I have made their acquaintance.'

A garden raised from seed is a garden raised in the heart, the gardener growing along with the garden.

Gardening is not some sort of game by which one proves his superiority over others, nor is it a marketplace for the display of elegant things that others cannot afford. It is, on the contrary, a growing work of creation, endless in its changing elements. It is not a monument or an achievement, but a sort of traveling, a kind of pilgrimage you might say, often a bit grubby and sweaty though true pilgrims do not mind that. A garden is not a picture, but a language, which is of course the major art of life.

Looking back on what I have just written, I see I said sow a vast patch. I am sure this is good and sound advice. Always exaggerate rather than stint. Masses are more effective than mingies.

Speaking of extreme environments, garden-making in Greenland is said by gardeners there to require tamaviaartumik, Greenlandic for passion, ambition, and commitment.

I had to remember that I was only the referee, the human being who weeded and pinched back and watched everything grow. If I was patient and paid close attention, perennials would let me know where they wanted to be.

The trouble with master plans in gardens, then, is simply that they do not take into account masterful plants. Nor addled masters.

You always carry the memory of your garden in your heart. No matter where on earth you are . . . some mysterious tie will always bind you to your very own patch of soil.

The pleasure of gardening is often measured by the amount of weeding you don't have to do.

Seeing a plant that you have known only in catalogues is like recognizing a celebrity in a crowd.