There comes a point, in literary objectivity, when the author's self- effacement is hard to distinguish from moral cowardice.

I come more and more to the conclusion that wilderness, in America or anywhere else, is the only thing left that is worth saving.

Salome had but seven veils; the artist has a thousand.

Chastity is more a state of mind than of anatomy.

It may be true that my desk here is really 'nothing but' a transient eddy of electrons in the flux of universal process. Nevertheless, I find that it continues to support my feet, my revolver, and my cigars all day long. What happens when my back is turned I don't know. Or much care. That's no concern of mine.

A man could be a lover and defender of the wilderness without ever in his lifetime leaving the boundaries of asphalt, powerlines, and right-angled surfaces. We need wilderness whether or not we ever set foot in it. We need a refuge even though we may never need to set foot in it. We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope; without it the life of the cities would drive all men into crime or drugs or psychoanalysis.

There are no vacant lots in nature.