Читать книгу Bathed in Abrasion - N. Thomas Johnson-Medland - Страница 4

“It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us. Now, nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fisherman in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic like in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sound of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river is cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by rivers.”

—Norman Maclean

“A River Runs Through It”

University of Chicago press, 1976

“This majestic, ancient ice-flood came from the eastward, as the scoring and the crushing of the surface shows. Even below the waters of the lake the rock in some places is still grooved and polished; the lapping of the waves and their disintegrating action has not as yet obliterated even the superficial markings of glaciation.”

—John Muir

“My First Summer in the Sierra”