Indians are marvelous storytellers. In some ways, that oral tradition is stronger than the written tradition.

Once in his life, a man ought to concentrate his mind upon the remembered earth, I believe. He ought to give himself up to a particular landscape in his experience, to look at it from as many angles as he can, to wonder about it, to dwell upon it. He ought to imagine that he touches it with his hands at every season and listens to the sounds that are made upon it. He ought to imagine the creatures there and all the faintest motions of the wind. He ought to recollect the glare of noon and all the colors of the dawn and dusk.

I am interested in the way that we look at a given landscape and take possession of it in our blood and brain. None of us lives apart from the land entirely; such an isolation is unimaginable. If we are to realize and maintain our humanity, we must come to a moral comprehension of earth and air as it is perceived in the long turn of seasons and of years.

The landscape of the American West has to be seen to believed and has to be believed to be seen.

Your imagination comes to life, and this, you think, is where Creation was begun.

For the storyteller, for the arrowmaker, language does indeed represent the only chance for survival.

Indians are marvelous storytellers. In some ways, that oral tradition is stronger than the written tradition.