I need this wild life, this freedom.

At the end of the day faith is a funny thing. It turns up when you don’t really expect it. Its like one day you realize that the fairy tale may be slightly different than you dreamed. The castle, well, it may not be a castle. And its not so important happy ever after, just that its happy right now. See once in a while, once in a blue moon, people will surprise you , and once in a while people may even take your breath away.

Recipe For Greatness – To bear up under loss; To fight the bitterness of defeat and the weakness of grief; To be victor over anger; To smile when tears are close; To resist disease and evil men and base instincts; To hate hate and to love love; To go on when it would seen good to die; To look up with unquenchable faith in something ever more about to be. That is what any man can do, and be great.

Jealousy is an unjust and stifling thing.

Where I was raised a woman’s word was law. I ain’t quite outgrowed that yet.

You and I will never live to see the day that women recover their balance.

I knew you”d never be American enough to help me reconstruct my life.

I am waiting to plunge down, to shatter and crash, roar and boom, to bury your trail, and close forever the outlet to Deception Pass.

I am waiting to plunge down, to shatter and crash, roar and boom, to bury your trail, and close forever the outlet to Deception Pass.

He stalked into the room, leaned his long rifle against the mantelpiece and spread out his hands to the fire. He was clad from head to foot in fringed and beaded buckskin, which showed evidence of a long and arduous tramp. It was torn and wet and covered with mud. He was a magnificently made man, six feet in height, and stood straight as an arrow. His wide shoulders, and his muscular, though not heavy, limbs denoted wonderful strength and activity. His long hair, black as a raven’s wing, hung far down his shoulders. Presently he turned and the light shone on a remarkable face. So calm and cold and stern it was that it seemed chiselled out of marble. The most striking features were its unusual pallor, and the eyes, which were coal black, and piercing as the dagger’s point.

The narrator finds that as a maturing character grows in stature before her friends that she sees less stature while evaluating herself.

With that they, and many others, left the hall and joined the moving crowd in the street. The night was delightfully cool. Stars shone white in a velvet sky. The dry wind from mountain and desert blew in their faces.

With that they, and many others, left the hall and joined the moving crowd in the street. The night was delightfully cool. Stars shone white in a velvet sky. The dry wind from mountain and desert blew in their faces.

Halt!…” Wade leaped at the white Belllounds. “If you run I’ll break a leg for you–an’ then I’ll beat your miserable brains out!… Have you no sense? Can’t you recognize what’s comin’?… I’m goin’ to kill you, Buster Jack!””My God!” whispered the other, understanding fully at last.

When I envied a man’s spurs then they were indeed worth coveting.

What’s all the row over at Ben’s?” [Mrs. Ide] inquired, placidly, from her comfortable chair.”Rustlers, cattle, foremen, sheriffs, and Heaven only knows what,” replied Hettie, distractedly.

A man can die. He is glorious when he calmly accepts death; but when he fights like a tiger, when he stands at bay his back to the wall, a broken weapon in his hand, bloody, defiant, game to the end, then he is sublime. Then he wrings respect from the souls of even his bitterest foes. Then he is avenged even in his death.

But what can women do in times of war? They help, they cheer, they inspire, and if their cause is lost they must accept death or worse. Few women have the courage for self-destruction. “To the victor belong the spoils,” and women have ever been the spoils of war.

Like an arrow sprung from a bow Betty flashed past the Colonel and out on the green. Scarcely ten of the long hundred yards had been covered by her flying feet when a roar of angry shouts and yells warned Betty that the keen-eyed savages saw the bag of powder and now knew they had been deceived by a girl.

Instantly a thick blackness seemed to enfold her and silence as of a dead world settled down upon her. Drowsy as she was she could not close her eyes nor refrain from listening. Darkness and silence were tangible things. She felt them. And they seemed suddenly potent with magic charm to still the tumult of her, to sooth and rest, to create thought she had never thought before. Rest was more than selfish indulgence. Loneliness was necessary to gain conciseness of the soul.

Shut off your wind, Jack! And you, too, Blaze! I didn’t want you fellows to come here. But as you would come, you’ve got to shut up. This is my business.

He saw how some divine guidance had directed his footsteps to this home. How many years had it taken him to get there.

And as he lost that softness of nature, so he lost his fear of men. He would watch for Oldring, biding his time, and he would kill this great black-bearded rustler who had held a girl in bondage, who had used her to his infamous ends.

his phantoms of peace. Majestically they formed around him, marshalling and mustering in ceremonious state, and moved to lay upon him their passionless serenity.

Red Lake must be his Rubicon. Either he must enter the unknown to seek, to strive, to find, or turn back and fail and never know and be always haunted.

did not at first give vague disappointment, a confounding of reality, a disenchantment of contrast with what the mind had conceived.

the trail, and returned home as he had left, stealthily, like an Indian.

The spell of the desert comes back to me, as it always will come. I see the veils, like purple smoke, in the cañons, and I feel the silence. And it seems that again I must try to pierce both and to get at the strange wild life of the last American wilderness– wild still, almost, as it ever was.

Likewise he believed that men wandering or lost in the wilderness often reversed that brutal order of life and became noble, wonderful, super-human.

the strong feeling beginning to be manifested to Wade was not the fun of matching wits and luck with his antagonists, nor a desire to accumulate money–for his recklessness disproved that–but the liberation of the gambling passion.

the strong feeling beginning to be manifested to Wade was not the fun of matching wits and luck with his antagonists, nor a desire to accumulate money–for his recklessness disproved that–but the liberation of the gambling passion.

perhaps he and this man, alone on the desert, driven there by life’s mysterious and remorseless motive, were to see each other through God’s eyes.

Life is hard enough, God knows, but it’s unfailin’ true in the end to the man or woman who finds the best in them an’ stands by it.

You must use that hope an’ faith to help you get well.

I will live them. I will have faith and hope and love, for I am his daughter,” she said.

and of storehouses and of freight-trains—destruction.

cliff

and returned. To Duane the outlaw.

Instinct may not be greater than reason, but it’s a million years older. Don’t fight your instincts so hard. If they were not good the God of Creation would not have given them to you.

his ideal of living.

The other sleepers lay calm and white in the starlight. There was something nameless in that canyon, and whether or not it was what the Indian embodied in the great Nonnezoshe . . . the truth was that there was a spirit.

I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.

I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.

I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.

I hope I have found myself, my work, my happiness – under the light of the western skies.

Love of man for woman – love of woman for man. That’s the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.

Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.

Fishing is a condition of the mind wherein one cannot have a bad time.

I love my work but do not know how I write it.

Never insult seven men when all your packing is a six-shooter.

If I fished only to capture fish, my fishing trips would have ended long ago.

What makes life worth living? Better surely, to yield to the stain of suicide blood in me and seek forgetfulness in the embrace of cold dark death.

Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.

I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.

I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.

Far away Tongariro! Green – white thundering Athabasca river of New Zealand! I vowed I would come again down across the Pacific to fish in the swift cold waters of this most beautiful and famous of trout streams. It is something to have striven. It is much to have kept your word.

Fishermen, no matter what supreme good fortune befalls them, cannot ever be absolutely satisfied. It is a fundamental weakness of intellect.

Fishermen, no matter what supreme good fortune befalls them, cannot ever be absolutely satisfied. It is a fundamental weakness of intellect.

I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.

Socialism reached into her mind, to be rejected. She had never understood it clearly, but it seemed to her a state of mind where dissatisfied men and women wanted to share what harder working or more gifted people possessed.

I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.

With distrust came suspicion and with suspicion came fear, and with fear came hate – and these, in already distorted minds, inflamed a hell.

Realism is death to me. I cannot stand life as it is.

I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.

Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.

I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.

Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.

I can write best in the silence and solitude of the night, when everyone has retired.

There was never an angler who lived but that there was a fish capable of taking the conceit out of him.

A good rule of angling philosophy is not to interfere with any fishermans ways of being happy, unless you want to be hated.

The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.

Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.

Work is my salvation. It changes my moods.

It was a decent New Year’s, but it took a million officers to make it so.

Before exulatation had vanished, I felt as if I had been granted a marvellous privilege. Out of the inscrutable waters a beautiful fish had somehow leaped to show me fleetingly the life and spirit of his element.

Before exulatation had vanished, I felt as if I had been granted a marvellous privilege. Out of the inscrutable waters a beautiful fish had somehow leaped to show me fleetingly the life and spirit of his element.

Unhappiness is only a change. Happiness itself is only change. So what does it matter? The great thing is to see life – to understand – to feel – to work – to fight – to endure.

There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.

There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.

There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.

Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.

Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.

I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.

An awful sense of her deadness, of her soul-blighting selfishness, began to dawn upon her as something monstrous out of dim, gray obscurity.

Adam Larey gazed with hard and wondering eyes down the silent current of the red river upon which he meant to drift away into the desert.

What is writing but an expression of my own life.

This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.

The rugged fallow ground under her feet seemed to her to be a symbol of faith – faith that winter would come and pass – the spring sun and rain would burst the seeds of wheat – and another summer would see the golden fields of waving grain. If she did not live to see them, they would be there just the same; and so life and nature had faith in its promise. That strange whisper was to Lenore the whisper of God.