The Peregrine Quotes

“I have always longed to be part of the outward life, to be out there at the edge of things, to let the human taint wash away in emptiness and silence as the fox sloughs his smell into the cold unworldliness of water; to return to town a stranger. Wandering flushes a glory that fades with arrival.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Cold air rises from the ground as the sun goes down.  The eye-burning clarity of the light intensifies. The southern rim of the sky glows to a deeper blue, to pale violet, to purple, then thins to grey.  Slowly the wind falls, and the still air begins to freeze.  The solid eastern ridge is black; it has a bloom on it like the dust on the skin of a grape.  The west flares briefly.  The long, cold amber of the afterglow casts clear black lunar shadows.  There is an animal mystery in the light that sets upon the fields like a frozen muscle that will flex and wake at sunrise.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“The hardest thing of all to see is what is really there. Books about birds show pictures of the peregrine, and the text is full of information. Large and isolated in the gleaming whiteness of the page, the hawk stares back at you, bold, statuesque, brightly coloured. But when you have shut the book, you will never see that bird again. Compared with the close and static image, the reality will seem dull and disappointing. The living bird will never be so large, so shiny-bright. It will be deep in landscape, and always sinking farther back, always at the point of being lost. Pictures are waxworks beside the passionate mobility of the living bird.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Approach him across open ground with a steady unfaltering movement. Let your shape grow in size but do not alter its outline. Never hide yourself unless concealment is complete. Be alone. Shun the furtive oddity of man, cringe from the hostile eyes of farms. Learn to fear. To share fear is the greatest bond of all. The hunter must become the thing he hunts.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“No pain, no death, is more terrible to a wild creature than its fear of man. A red-throated diver, sodden and obscene with oil, able to move only its head, will push itself out from the sea-wall with its bill if you reach down to it as it floats like a log in the tide. A poisoned crow, gaping and helplessly floundering in the grass, bright yellow foam bubbling from its throat, will dash itself up again and again on to the descending wall of air, if you try to catch it. A rabbit, inflated and foul with myxomatosis, just a twitching pulse beating in a bladder of bones and fur, will feel the vibration of your footstep and will look for you with bulging, sightless eyes. Then it will drag itself away into a bush, trembling with fear. We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Terror seeks out the odd, and the sick, and the lost.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Fear releases power. Man might be more tolerable, less fractious and smug, if he had more to fear. I do not mean fear of the intangible, the suffocation of the introvert, but physical fear, cold sweating fear for one's life, fear of the unseen menacing beast, imminent, bristly, tusked and terrible, ravening for one's own hot saline blood.”
― J. A. Baker, The Peregrine

“We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away.”
― J. A. Baker, The Peregrine

“For an hour, till greyness covered all, the water shone like milk and mother-of-pearl. The sea breathed quietly, like a sleeping dog.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“The hardest thing of all to see is what is really there.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Wherever he goes, this winter, I will follow him. I will share the fear, and the exaltation, and the boredom, of the hunting life. I will follow him till my predatory human shape no longer darkens in terror the shaken kaleidoscope of colour that stains the deep fovea of his brilliant eye. My pagan head shall sink into the winter land, and there be purified.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Detailed landscapes are tedious. One part of England is superficially so much like another. The differences are subtle, coloured by love.”
― J A Baker, The Peregrine

“The peregrine’s view of the land is like the yachtsman’s view of the shore as he sails into the long estuaries. A wake of water recedes behind him, the wake of the pierced horizon glides back on either side. Like the seafarer, the peregrine lives in a pouring-away world of no attachment, a world of wakes and tilting, of sinking planes of land and water. We who are anchored and earthbound cannot envisage this freedom of the eye. The peregrine sees and remembers patterns we do not know exist: the neat squares of orchard and woodland, the endlessly varying quadrilateral shapes of fields. He finds his way across the land by a succession of remembered symmetries. But what does he understand? Does he really ‘know’ that an object that increases in size is moving towards him? Or is it that he believes in the size he sees, so that a distant man is too small to be frightening but a man near is a man huge and therefore terrifying? He may live in a world of endless pulsations, of objects forever contracting or dilating in size. Aimed at a distant bird, a flutter of white wings, he may feel – as it spreads out beneath him like a stain of white – that he can never fail to strike. Everything he is has been evolved to link the targeting eye to the striking talon.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“For a bird, there are only two sorts of bird: their own sort, and those that are dangerous. No others exist. The rest are just harmless objects, like stones, or trees, or men when they are dead.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“The first bird I searched for was the nightjar, which used to nest in the valley. Its song is like the sound of a stream of wine spilling from a height into a deep and booming cask. It is an odorous sound, with a bouquet that rises to the quiet sky. In the glare of day it would seem thinner and drier, but dusk mellows it and gives it vintage. If a song could smell, this song would smell of crushed grapes and almonds and dark wood. The sound spills out, and none of it is lost. The whole wood brims with it.”
― j.a. baker, The Peregrine

“Farms are well ordered, prosperous, but a fragrance of neglect still lingers, like a ghost of fallen grass. There is always a sense of loss, a feeling of being forgotten. There is nothing else here; no castles, no ancient monuments, no hills like green clouds. It is just a curve of the earth, a rawness of winter fields. Dim, flat, desolate lands that cauterize all sorrow.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Predators overcome their prey by the exploitation of weakness rather than by superior power.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“I have always longed to be a part of the outward life, to be out there at the edge of things, to let the human taint wash away in emptiness and silence as the fox sloughs his smell into the cold unworldliness of water; to return to the town as a stranger. Wandering flushes a glory that fades with arrival.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Nothing is as beautifully, richly red as flowing blood on snow. It is strange that the eye can love what mind and body hate.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Like all hunters, the peregrine is inhibited by a code of behaviour. It seldom chases prey on the ground or pursues it into cover, in the manner of other hawks, though it is quite capable of doing so. Many adults take only birds in flight, but juveniles are less particular. Peregrines perfect their killing power by endless practice, like knights or sportsmen. Those most adaptable, within the limits of the code, survive. If the code is persistently broken, the hawk is probably sick or insane.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“This was my first peregrine. I have seen many since then, but none has excelled it for speed and fire of spirit. For ten years I spent all my winters searching for that restless brilliance, for the sudden passion and violence that peregrines flush from the sky. For ten years I have been looking upward for that cloud-biting anchor shape, that crossbow flinging through the air. The eye becomes insatiable for hawks. It clicks towards them with ecstatic fury, just as the hawk’s eye swings and dilates to the luring food-shapes of gull and pigeons.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“To share fear is the greatest bond of all. The hunter must become the thing he hunts. What is, is now, must have the quivering intensity of an arrow thudding into a tree. Yesterday is dim and monochrome. A week ago you were not born.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Its song is like the sound of a stream of wine spilling from a height into a deep and booming cask. It is an odorous sound, with a bouquet that rises to the quiet sky. In the glare of day it would seem thinner and drier, but dusk mellows it and gives it vintage. The sound spills out, and none of it is lost.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“I found myself crouching over the kill, like a mantling hawk. My eyes turned quickly about, alert for the walking heads of men. Unconsciously I was imitating the movements of a hawk, as in some primitive ritual; the hunter becoming the thing he hunts. I looked into the wood. In a lair of shadow the peregrine was crouching, watching me, gripping the neck of a dead branch. We live, in these days in the open, the same ecstatic fearful life. We shun men. We hate their suddenly uplifted arms, the insanity of their flailing gestures, their erratic scissoring gait, their aimless stumbling ways, the tombstone whiteness of their faces.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Nosotros, los que vivimos anclados y ligados a la tierra, no podemos vislumbrar esta libertad del ojo. El peregrino ve y recuerda pautas que para nosotros ni siquiera existen: los claros rectángulos de los huertos y los bosques, la variedad sin fin de los cuadriláteros de los campos. Se abre camino por la tierra mediante una sucesión de simetrías recordadas. ¿Pero qué comprende? ¿Realmente «sabe» que un objeto que aumenta de tamaño se le está acercando? ¿O, como cree en el tamaño que ve, un hombre lejano es demasiado pequeño para temerle pero si está cerca es enorme y aterroriza? Quizá viva en un mundo de pulsaciones incesantes, de objetos que no paran de dilatarse y contraerse. Apuntado a un pájaro distante, a un batir de alas, tal vez sienta —a medida que se extiende debajo de él como una mancha blanca— que nunca va a errar. Todo lo que él es se ha desarrollado para vincular el ojo que localiza con el talón que se clava.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Cuando encuentra al halcón, el perseguidor puede mirar tranquilamente por encima del hombro el enorme tedio y la desdicha de la búsqueda y la espera que precedieron. Todo se transfigura, como si de golpe las columnas rotas de un templo en ruinas hubiesen retomado el esplendor de antaño.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Si uno dice «las diez» o «las tres» no habla del tiempo gris y encogido de las ciudades; habla del recuerdo de cierta fulminación o declinación de la luz que fue única para un momento y un lugar precisos ese día, un recuerdo tan nítido para el cazador como un fogonazo de magnesio.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Siempre he deseado ser parte de lo abierto, estar allá, al borde de las cosas, dejar que la impureza humana se enjuague hasta el vacío y el silencio como el zorro disuelve su olor en el agua fría y ultramundana; volver a la ciudad como un extranjero. Vagabundear nos sonrosa de una gloria que con el arribo se desvanece.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“Above, they were the colour of the sea’s deepest blue; below, like the soiled whiteness of shadowed chalk. In the turbulent air above the cliffs and shallows they soared for hours, hoping perhaps to lure away intruders from their nesting place. Invisible even in a telescope magnifying sixty times, even in purest summer sky, they drifted idly above the glittering Channel water. They had no song. Their calls were harsh and ugly. But their soaring was like an endless silent singing. What else had they to do? They were sea falcons now; there was nothing to keep them to the land. Foul poison burned within them like a burrowing fuse. Their life was lonely death, and would not be renewed. All they could do was take their glory to the sky. They were the last of their race.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine

“The peregrine sees and remembers patterns we do not know exist: the neat squares of orchard and woodland, the endlessly varying quadrilateral shapes of fields. He finds his way across the land by a succession of remembered symmetries. But what does he understand? Does he really ‘know’ that an object that increases in size is moving towards him? Or is it that he believes in the size he sees, so that a distant man is too small to be frightening but a man near is a man huge and therefore terrifying? He may live in a world of endless pulsations, of objects forever contracting or dilating in size. Aimed at a distant bird, a flutter of white wings, he may feel – as it spreads out beneath him like a stain of white – that he can never fail to strike. Everything he is has been evolved to link the targeting eye to the striking talon.”
― J.A. Baker, The Peregrine