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Hierarchical institutions are like giant bulldozers -- obedient to the whim of any fool who takes the controls.

Edward Abbey

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Edward Abbey
Age: 62 †
Born: 1927
Born: January 29
Died: 1989
Died: March 14
Author
Environmentalist
Essayist
Novelist
Philosopher
Screenwriter
Writer
Edward Paul Abbey
Obedient
Giant
Giants
Institutions
Fool
Bulldozers
Takes
Hierarchical
Like
Whim
Controls

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Apuleius married a rich widow, then wrote _The Golden Ass_.
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Salome had but seven veils the artist has a thousand.
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Critics are like ticks on a dog or tits on a motor: ornamental but dysfunctional.
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All governments need enemies. How else to justify their existence?
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Lightning streaks like gunfire through the clouds, volleys of thunder shake the air.
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Reply to Plato: I seen horses I seen cows I haint never yet seen horsiness nor that there bovinity neither.
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Nature is indifferent to our love, but never unfaithful.
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Do I believe in ghosts? I believe in the ghosts that haunt the human mind.
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Truth is always the enemy of power. And power the enemy of truth.
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Our suicidal poets (Plath, Berryman, Lowell, Jarrell, et al.) spent too much of their lives inside rooms and classrooms when they should have been trudging up mountains, slogging through swamps, rowing down rivers. The indoor life is the next best thing to premature burial.
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All living things on earth are kindred.
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May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.
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We are preoccupied with time. If we could learn to love space as deeply as we are now obsessed with time, we might discover a new meaning in the phrase to live like men.
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In this glare of brilliant emptiness, in this arid intensity of pure heat, in the heart of a weird solitude, great silence and grand desolution, all things recede to distrances out of reach, relecting light but impossible to touch, annihilating all thought and all that men have made to a spasm of whirling dust far out on the golden desert.
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The most striking thing about the rich is the gracious democracy of their manners -- and the crude vulgarity of their way of life.
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I would prefer to write about everything what else is there? But one must be selective.
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In the afternoon I watch the clouds drift past the bald peak of Mount Tukuhnikivats. (Someone has to do it.)
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One day in Dipstick, Nebraska, or Landfill, Oklahoma, is worth more to me than an eternity in Dante's plastic Paradiso, or Yeats's gold-plated Byzantium.
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If we had the power of ten Shakespeares or a dozen Mozarts, we could not produce anything half so marvelous as one ordinary human child.
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All revolutions have failed? Perhaps. But rebellion for good cause is self- justifying -- a good in itself. Rebellion transforms slaves into human beings, if only for an hour.
Edward Abbey