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Once I climbed into a mountain lion's cage and she bounded at me and put her paw on my face, but she kept her claws withdrawn.

Edward Hoagland

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Edward Hoagland
Age: 91
Born: 1932
Born: December 21
Author
Writer
New York
United States
Lions
Bounded
Kept
Withdrawn
Mountain
Paws
Face
Climbed
Faces
Claws
Cage
Cages
Lion

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It would be hard to define chaos better than as a world where children decide they don't want to live.
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The question of whether it's God's green earth is not at center stage, except in the sense that if so, one is reminded with some regularity that He may be dying.
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The novelist screws up his courage in order to invest another two or three years in another attempt to float a boat of original design upon an invented ocean.
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Our loneliness makes us avid column readers these days.
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Many people have believed that they were Chosen, but none more baldly than the Texans.
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Men greet each other with a sock on the arm, women with a hug, and the hug wears better in the long run.
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Country people tend to consider that they have a corner on righteousness and to distrust most manifestations of cleverness, while people in the city are leery of righteousness but ascribe to themselves all manner of cleverness.
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Sophistication is another word for that inventive mix of tolerance, resilience, and resourcefulness city people develop.
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Indeed, if biology is chemistry with history, as somebody has said, then nature writing is biology with love.
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To live is to see, and traveling sometimes speeds up the process.
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A writer's work is to witness things.
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There often seems to be a playfulness to wise people, as if either their equanimity has as its source this playfulness or the playfulness flows from equanimity and they can persuade other people who are in a state of agitation to calm down and smile.
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Country people do not behave as if they think life is short they live on the principle that it is long, and savor variations of the kind best appreciated if most days are the same.
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If two people are in love they can sleep on the blade of a knife.
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If a person sings quietly to himself on the street people smile with approval but if he talks it's not alright they think he's crazy. The singer is presumed to be happy and the talker unhappy.
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Poetry is engendered in solitude, so what better meter for it than the clip of a buckskin horse?
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In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn't merely try to train him to be semi-human. The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog.
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Animals used to provide a lowlife way to kill and get away with it, as they do still, but, more intriguingly, for some people they are an aperture through which wounds drain. The scapegoat of olden times, driven off for the bystanders sins, has become a tender thing, a running injury. There, running away is me: hurt it and you are hurting me.
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True solitude is a din of birdsong, seething leaves, whirling colors, or a clamor of tracks in the snow.
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Silence is exhilarating at first - as noise is - but there is a sweetness to silence outlasting exhilaration, akin to the sweetness of listening and the velvet of sleep.
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