Edward Abbey

One man alone can be pretty dumb sometimes, but for real bona fide stupidity there ain't nothing can beat teamwork.

—Edward Abbey. The Monkey Wrench Gang.

The ideal off-road journey? I'll tell you: under water. I would like to see every four-by-four on earth, every three-wheeler, every dirt bike, trail bike, and Big Foot truck driven straight into the Marianas Trench, three thousand feet below the surface of the Pacific Ocean and parked there—left there—for the duration.

—Edward Abbey. "Letter to Ms. Shute, 12 Feb 1986." Postcards from Ed: Dispatches and Salvos from an American Iconoclast.

Transmission problem. Can't get my ass in gear.

—Edward Abbey. "Letter to Doug Peacock, December 1986." Postcards from Ed: Dispatches and Salvos from an American Iconoclast.

My own notion of moral fiction I'd phrase like this: It is the writer's duty to hate injustice, to defy the powerful, and to speak for the voiceless. To be, as Isaiah was, and St Francis, and Diogenes, and Rabelais, and Villon, and Thoreau and Mark Twain and Tolstoy, to name but a handful, the severest critics of our own societies.

Sooner or later, we Americans are going to have to grow beyond the Greed & Gluttony Lifestyle into something a little simpler, saner, quieter, more human and humane. The only question is, Shall we do it voluntarily, rationally, in a way that is fair for all, or shall we continue to drift toward ecological disaster, violence and civil strife, and either nuclear war or technological tyranny as the ultimate solution?

Ah yes, the head is full of books. The hard part is to force them down through the bloodstream and out through the fingers.

—Edward Abbey. "Letter to Frederick W. Hills, 20 Jan 1976." Postcards from Ed: Dispatches and Salvos from an American Iconoclast.

She is dressed this morning like a gypsy in full skirt, flowered blouse, a scarlet kerchief on her head and golden hoops dangling from her pierced ears. She wears sandals. She plays the guitar. She smokes a pipe, farts when she feels like it, and swears like a man. A good honest woman.

—Edward Abbey. "My Friend Debris." Down the River.

We reach the mouth of the canyon and the old trail uphill to the roadhead in time to see the first stars come out. Barely in time. Nightfall is quick in this arid climate and the air feels already cold. But we have earned enough memories, stored enough mental-emotional images in our heads, from one brief day in Aravaipa Canyon, to enrich the urban days to come. As Thoreau found a universe in the woods around Concord, any person whose senses are alive can make a world of any natural place, however limited it might seem, on this subtle planet of ours.

I might also say, regarding reviews and reviewers, that I have yet to read a review of any of my own books which I could not have written much better myself.

—Edward Abbey. "Preliminary Notes." Down the River.

I wish I had the courage to travel light, like John Muir, with only raisins and a crust of pumpernickel in my pockets. But he was wandering in the friendly High Sierra, where brooks babble and berries ripen in the placid sunshine.

—Edward Abbey. "A Walk in the Desert Hills." Beyond the Wall.