A word has power in and of itself. It comes from nothing into sound and meaning; it gives origin to all things.

Although my grandmother lived out her long life in the shadow of Rainy Mountian, the immense landscape of the continental interior lay like memory in her blood

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

There was only the dark infinity in which nothing was. And something happened. At the distance of a star something happened, and everything began. The Word did not come into being, but it was. It did not break upon the silence, but it was older than the silence and the silence was made of it.

In the beginning was the word, and it was spoken.

It's a landscape that has to be seen to be believed. And, as I say on occasion, it may have to be believed in order to be seen.

The character of the landscape changes from hour to hour, day to day, season to season. Nothing of the earth can be taken for granted; you feel that Creation is going on in your sight. You see things in the high air that you do not see farther down in the lowlands. In the high country all objects bear upon you, and you touch hard upon the earth. From my home I can see the huge, billowing clouds; they draw close upon me and merge with my life.