Somewhere in the depths of solitude, beyond wilderness and freedom, lay the trap of madness.
Music clouds the intellect but clarifies the heart.
Platitude: a statement that denies by implication what it explicitly affirms.
The absurd vanity of metaphysicians who like to imagine that they create the world by thinking about it.
Of all bores, the worst is the sparkling bore.
But it is a writer's duty to write and speak and record the truth, always the truth, no matter whom may be offended.
Filling out the form: Race? Human. Religion? Paiute. Occupation? Criminal anarchy. Hobbies? Survival with honor.
Most new books drop immediately into the oblivion they so richly deserve.
Climbing K2 or floating the Grand Canyon in an inner tube; there are some things one would rather have done than do.
I must confess that I know nothing whatsoever about true underlying reality, never having met any.
Capitalism sounds good in theory but it just doesn't work.
Reply to Plato: I seen horses I seen cows I haint never yet seen horsiness nor that there bovinity neither.
For women, the sexual act is a means to a higher end. For a man, it is an end in itself.
Anarchy works. Italy has proved it for a thousand years.
The "terror" of the French Revolution lasted for ten years. The terror that preceded and led to it lasted for a thousand years.
Of all the featherless beasts, only man, chained by his self-imposed slavery to the clock, denies the elemental fire and proceeds as best he can about his business, suffering quietly, martyr to his madness. Much to learn.
My own best books have not been published. In fact, they've not even been written yet.
Mexico: where life is cheap, death is rich, and the buzzards are never unhappy.
A good book is a kind of paper club, serving to rouse the slumbrous and to silence the obtuse.
The consolation of reading biography: Most great men have led lives even more miserable than our own.
The writer concerned more with technique than truth becomes a technician, not an artist.
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.
If wilderness is outlawed, only outlaws can save wilderness.
Democracy -- rule by the people -- sounds like a fine thing; we should try it sometime in America.
A cowboy is a hired hand on the middle of a horse contemplating the hind end of a cow.
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