Loneliness Is An Aspect Of The Land.

Anything Is Bearable If You Can Make A Story Out Of It.

Although My Grandmother Lived Out Her Long Life In The Shadow Of Rainy Mountian, The Immense Landscape Of The Continental Interior Lay Like Memory In Her Blood

I Am Interested In The Way That We Look At A Given Landscape And Take Possession Of It In Our Blood And Brain. None Of Us Lives Apart From The Land Entirely; Such An Isolation Is Unimaginable. If We Are To Realize And Maintain Our Humanity, We Must Come To A Moral Comprehension Of Earth And Air As It Is Perceived In The Long Turn Of Seasons And Of Years.

For The Storyteller, For The Arrowmaker, Language Does Indeed Represent The Only Chance For Survival.

Writing Engenders In Us Certain Attitudes Toward Language. It Encourages Us To Take Words For Granted. Writing Has Enabled Us To Store Vast Quantities Of Words Indefinitely. This Is Advantageous On The One Hand But Dangerous On The Other. The Result Is That We Have Developed A Kind Of False Security Where Language Is Concerned, And Our Sensitivity To Language Has Deteriorated. And We Have Become In Proportion Insensitive To Silence.