Our job is to record, each in his own way, this world of light and shadow and time that will never come again exactly as it is today.
No man is wise enough to be another man's master. Each man's as good as the next -- if not a damn sight better.
No tyranny is so irksome as petty tyranny: the officious demands of policemen, government clerks, and electromechanical gadgets.
Charity should be spontaneous. Calculated altruism is an affront.
A man is not aware of his virtues (if any). Nevertheless, one hopes that they exist.
The fire. The odor of burning juniper is the sweetest fragrance on the face of the earth, in my honest judgment; I doubt if all the smoking censers of Dante's paradise could equal it. One breath of juniper smoke, like the perfume of sagebrush after rain, evokes in magical catalysis, like certain music, the space and light and clarity and piercing strangeness of the American West. Long may it burn.
Some people write to please, to soothe, to console. Others to provoke, to challenge, to exasperate and infuriate. I've always found the second approach the more pleasing.
The industrial corporation is the natural enemy of nature.
Government should be weak, amateurish and ridiculous. At present, it fulfills only a third of the role.
Music begins where words leave off. Music expresses the inexpressible. If there is a Kingdom of Heaven, it lies in music.
The rifle and handgun are 'equalizers' -- the weapons of a democracy. Tanks and bombers represent dictatorship.
I would give ten years off the beginning of my life to see, only once, Tyrannosaurus rex come rearing up from the elms of Central Park, a Morgan police horse screaming in its jaws. We can never have enough of nature.
It is not an easy thing to inflate a dog.
A rancher is a farmer who farms the public lands with a herd of four-legged lawn mowers.
In the dog-eat-dog economy, the Doberman is boss.
I, too, believe in fidelity. But how can I be true to one woman without being false to all the others?
The very poor are strictly materialistic. It takes money to be a mystic.
Saving the world was merely a hobby. My *vocation* has been that of inspector of desert water holes.
The world is older and bigger than we are. This is a hard truth for some folks to swallow.
War: First day in the U.S. Army, the government placed a Bible in my left hand, a bayonet in the other.
Why do I write? I write to entertain my friends and to exasperate our enemies. To unfold the folded lie, to record to truth of our time, and, of course, to promote esthetic bliss.
Scientific method: There's a madness in the method.
My books always make the best-seller lists in Wolf Hole, Arizona, and Hanksville, Utah.
Running the big rapids is like sex: half the fun lies in the anticipation. Two thirds of the thrill with the approach. The remainder is only ecstasy-or darkness.
Late in August the lure of the mountains becomes irresistible. Seared by the everlasting sunfire, I want to see running water again, embrace a pine tree, cut my initials in the bark of an aspen, get bit by a mosquito, see a mountain bluebird, find a big blue columbine, get lost in the firs, hike above timberline, sunbathe on snow and eat some ice, climb the rocks and stand in the wind at the top of the world on the peak of Tukuhnikivats.
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