The
personification of the natural is exactly the tendency I wish to
suppress in myself, to eliminate for good. I am here not only to
evade for a while the clamor and filth and confusion of the cultural
apparatus but also to confront, immediately and directly if it’s
possible, the bare bones of existence, the elemental and fundamental,
the bedrock which sustains us. I want to be able to look at and into
a juniper tree, a piece of quartz, a vulture, a spider, and see it as
it is in itself, devoid of all humanly ascribed qualities,
anti-Kantian, even the categories of scientific description. . . .
the
strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here in the
desert, by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna: life not
crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in
spareness and simplicity; with a generous gift of space for each herb
and bush and tree, each stem of grass, so that the living organism
stands out bold and brave and vivid against the lifeless sand and
barren rock. The extreme clarity of the desert light is equaled by
the extreme individuation of desert life-forms. Love flowers best in
openness and freedom. . . .
I can
hear myself think. . . .
In the
evening the wind stops. A low gray ceiling of clouds hangs over the
desert from horizon to horizon, silent and still. One small opening
remains in the west. The sun peers through as it goes down. For a few
minutes the voodoo monuments burn with a golden light, then fade to
rose and blue and violet as the sun winks out and drops. My private
juniper stands alone, one dead claw reaching at the sky. The blossoms
on the cliffrose are folding up, the scarlet penstemon and the
bayonets of the yucca turn dull and vague in the twilight. . . .
A
venturesome minority will always be eager to set off on their own,
and no obstacles should be placed in their path; let them take risks,
for godsake, let them get lost, sunburnt, stranded, drowned, eaten by
bears, buried alive under avalanches — that is the right a
privilege of any free American. . . .
At
what distance should good neighbors build their houses? Let it be
determined by the community’s mode of travel: if by foot, four
miles; if by horseback, eight miles; if by motorcar, twenty-four
miles; if by airplane, ninety-six miles. . . .
to
evade for a while the clamor and filth and confusion of the cultural
apparatus but also to confront, immediately and directly if it’s
possible, the bare bones of existence . . . the bedrock
