Somewhere in the depths of solitude, beyond wilderness and freedom, lay the trap of madness.
The absurd vanity of metaphysicians who like to imagine that they create the world by thinking about it.
Filling out the form: Race? Human. Religion? Paiute. Occupation? Criminal anarchy. Hobbies? Survival with honor.
Terrorism: deadly violence against humans and other living things, usually conducted by government against its own people.
Most new books drop immediately into the oblivion they so richly deserve.
A writer must be hard to live with: when not working he is miserable, and when he is working he is obsessed.
The gurus come from the sickliest nation on earth to tell us how to live. And we pay them for it.
The feminists have a legitimate grievance. But so does everyone else.
The only thing left worth saving is wilderness.
Climbing K2 or floating the Grand Canyon in an inner tube; there are some things one would rather have done than do.
Reply to Plato: I seen horses I seen cows I haint never yet seen horsiness nor that there bovinity neither.
Of all bores, the worst is the sparkling bore.
Platitude: a statement that denies by implication what it explicitly affirms.
But it is a writer's duty to write and speak and record the truth, always the truth, no matter whom may be offended.
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.
For women, the sexual act is a means to a higher end. For a man, it is an end in itself.
The "terror" of the French Revolution lasted for ten years. The terror that preceded and led to it lasted for a thousand years.
Anarchy works. Italy has proved it 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.
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.
The consolation of reading biography: Most great men have led lives even more miserable than our own.
A good book is a kind of paper club, serving to rouse the slumbrous and to silence the obtuse.
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