Larry Watson Famous Quotes
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Now no sign, no scorch or char, marks the place where George built the fire. Remarkable, earth's strength to restore itself and erase human effort. But memory, stronger still, can send flames as high as the roof, and shift the wind and choke George and sting his eyes with smoke ...
Two months ago my mother died. She made, as the expression goes, a good death.
the Cumberland Clinic could provide had to
Autumn has come to northeast Montana. The vapor of one's breath, the clarity of the stars, the smell of wood smoke, the stones underfoot that even a full day of sunlight won't warm- these all say there will be no more days that can be mistaken for summer.
Long past the moment when her neck begins to stiffen and ache, she continues to stare into the darkness, even though none of the human secrets she needs to know are to be found in the stars but rather closer to the earth her boots stand upon.
When night comes on in a room lit by kerosene, any flicker of the flame can give the sense that darkness is about to triumph.
A gust of wind doesn't suddenly bang a door open. A clock doesn't chime. The phone doesn't ring. Yet in the next instant the stillness breaks as if it is crystal.
Out of town I could simply be, I could feel my self, firm and calm and unmalleable as I could not when I was in school or in any of the usual human communities that seemed to weaken or scatter me. I could sit for an hour in the rocks above the Knife River, asking for no more discourse than that water's monotonous gabble. I was an inward child, it was true, but beyond that, I felt a contentment outside human society that I couldn't feel within it.
Where, incidentally, a holiday meal was not being served. My mother worked as a waitress at Palmer's Supper
The limitless, lowering sky, the long stretches of motionless empty prairie, the silence, complete right down to the absence of birdsong
who knows what decides a man to leave most of his words unspoken?
With so much unknown in this life, how little it takes for a face, a grove of trees, an outcropping of stone to become familiar.
A four-year-old has so little past, and he remembers almost none of it, neither the father he once had nor the house where he once lived. But he can feel the absences – and feel them as sensation, like a texture that was once at his fingers every day but now is gone and no matter how he gropes or reaches his hand he cannot touch what's no longer there.
