We Face The Question Whether A Still

The Life Of Every River Sings Its Own Song, But In Most The Song Is Long Marred By The Discords Of Misuse.

We Reached The Old Wolf In Time To Watch A Fierce Green Fire Dying In Her Eyes. I Realized Then, And Have Known Ever Since, That There Was Something New To Me In Those Eyes – Something Known Only To Her And To The Mountain. I Was Young Then, And Full Of Trigger-itch; I Thought That Because Fewer Wolves Meant More Deer, That No Wolves Would Mean Hunters’ Paradise. But After Seeing The Green Fire Die, I Sensed That Neither The Wolf Nor The Mountain Agreed With Such A View.

It Must Be Poor Life That Achieves Freedom From Fear.

But Wherever The Truth May Lie, This Much Is Crystal-clear: Our Bigger-and-better Society Is Now Like A Hypochondriac, So Obsessed With Its Own Economic Health As To Have Lost The Capacity To Remain Healthy. . . . Nothing Could Be More Salutary At This Stage Than A Little Healthy Contempt For A Plethora Of Material Blessings.

There Are Degrees And Kinds Of Solitude. I Know Of No Solitude So Secure As One Guarded By A Spring Flood; Nor Do The Geese, Who Have Seen More Kinds And Degrees Of Aloneness Than I Have.