Animals used to provide a lowlife way to kill and get away with it, as they do still, but, more intriguingly, for some people they are an aperture through which wounds drain. The scapegoat of olden times, driven off for the bystanders sins, has become a tender thing, a running injury. There, running away is me: hurt it and you are hurting me.
Edward HoaglandThe novelist screws up his courage in order to invest another two or three years in another attempt to float a boat of original design upon an invented ocean.
Edward HoaglandPoetry is engendered in solitude, so what better meter for it than the clip of a buckskin horse?
Edward HoaglandSummer is when we believe, all of a sudden, that if we just walked out the back door and kept on going long enough and far enough we would reach the Rocky Mountains.
Edward HoaglandTrue solitude is a din of birdsong, seething leaves, whirling colors, or a clamor of tracks in the snow.
Edward Hoagland