Everything is connected. The wing of the corn beetle affects the direction of the wind, the way the sand drifts, the way the light reflects into the eye of man beholding his reality. All is part of totality, and in this totality man finds his hozro, his way of walking in harmony, with beauty all around him.

I am 82 years old. I imagine that I will keep on writing as long as anyone wants to keep reading.

I know what I write about seems exotic to a lot of people, but not for me. I pulled up to an old trading post and saw a few elderly Navajos sitting on a bench. I felt right at home.

Being Indian is not blood as much as it is culture.

Thoughts, and words that spring from them, bend the individual's reality. To speak of death is to invite it. To think of sorrow is to produce it.

You write for two people, yourself and your audience, who are usually better educated and at least as smart.

An author knows his landscape best; he can stand around, smell the wind, get a feel for his place.