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In the common esteem, not only are the only good aboriginals dead ones, but all aboriginals are either sacred or contemptible according to the length of time they have been dead.

Mary Hunter Austin

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Mary Hunter Austin
Age: 65 †
Born: 1868
Born: September 9
Died: 1934
Died: August 13
Autobiographer
Essayist
Naturalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Carlinville
Illinois
Common
Length
Good
Racism
Time
Esteem
According
Aboriginals
Sacred
Contemptible
Ones
Aboriginal
Dead
Imperialism
Either
Bigotry

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Probably we never fully credit the interdependence of wild creatures, and their cognizance of the affairs of their own kind.
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The real wonder is not that one man should be a genius, but that every man should not be.
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The palpable sense of mystery in the desert air breeds fables, chiefly of lost treasure. ... It is a question whether it is not better to be bitten by the little horned snake of the desert that goes sidewise and strikes without coiling, than by the tradition of a lost mine.
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All mountain streets have streams to thread them, or deep grooves where a stream might run. You would do well to avoid that range uncomforted by singing floods. You will find it forsaken of most things but beauty and madness and death and God.
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Death by starvation is slow.
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I suppose that Italy must always lie like some lovely sunken island at the bottom of all passionate dreams, from which at the flood it may arise the air of it is charged with subtle essences of romance. One supposes Italy must be organized for the need of lovers.
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What women have to stand on squarely [is] not their ability to see the world in the way men see it, but the importance and validity of their seeing it in some other way.
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If you ever, ever, ever meet a grizzly bear, / You must never, never, never ask him where / He is going, / Or what he is doing / For if you ever, ever dare / To stop a grizzly bear, / You will never meet another grizzly bear.
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No man can be stronger than his destiny.
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The manner of the country makes the usage of life there, and the land will not be lived in except in its own fashion.
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For all the toll the desert takes of a man it gives compensations, deep breaths, deep sleep, and the communion of the stars.
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When a woman ceases to alter the fashion of her hair, you guess that she has passed the crisis of her experience.
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Life set itself to new processions of seed-time and harvest, the skin newly turned to seasonal variations, the very blood humming to new altitudes.
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Nothing the desert produces expresses it better than the unhappy growth of the tree yuccas
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To underestimate one's thirst, to pass a given landmark to the right or left, to find a dry spring where one looked for running water - there is no help for any of these things.
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I suppose no man becomes a pocket hunter by first intention.
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It is no use trying to improve on children's names for wildflowers.
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I do not know who sings my songs / Before they are sung by me.
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The utmost the American novelist can hope for, if he hopes at all to see his work included in the literature of his time, is that it may eventually be found to be along in the direction of the growing tip of collective consciousness. Preeminently the novelist's gift is that of access to the collective mind.
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Even the people who have it do not definitely know what genius is.
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