The Best of Edward Abbey (58 page)

(withdraw withdraw withdraw)

until the smoke clears and the time comes
to leave the wilderness and build at last
on the poor black battered plains of man
that visionary city of the prophecies.

You walked into the radiance of death
through passageways of stillness, stone and light,
gold coin of cottonwoods, the spangled shade,
cascading song of canyon wren, the flight
of scarlet dragonflies at pools, the stain
of water on a curve of sand, the art
of roots that crack the monolith of time.

You know the crazy lust to probe the heart
of that which has no heart we could know,
toward the source, deep in the core, the maze,
the secret center where no bounds hold.

Hunter, brother, companion of our days:
that blessing you hunted, hunted too;
what you were seeking, is what found you.

Confessions of
a Barbarian

November 29, 1976—Moab

The Edward Abbey of my books is largely a fictional creation: the true adventures of an imaginary person. The
real
Edward Abbey? I think I hardly know him. A shy, retiring, very timid fellow, obviously. Somewhat of a recluse, emerging rarely from his fictional den only when lured by money, vice, the prospect of applause.

February 23, 1977—Moab

Fifty years old! Haven’t I done most everything I ever wanted to do? I’ve enjoyed the friendship of a few good men, the love of several fine women. Fathered three sound, healthy and superior children (superior to their father). Wrote a couple of novels I’m not ashamed of, and some other books. Enjoyed a modicum of fame and glory, sudden money and easy living. Been fairly good to my parents, fairly generous to my friends and lovers and wives. Seen a bit of history in action. Seen some of the world’s most beautiful places. Camped in solitude on the rim of a high plateau, overlooking eternity. And so on.

And yet—and yet—of course, I am not satisfied. There must be something more. Something more I wanted to do … or be.

VALUES:

—Courage (“without courage, all other virtues are useless”)

—generosity: kindness, gentleness, sharing

—wisdom: knowledge and understanding; search for truth

—health

—good useful work to do

—love and friendship

—sanctity of all life, of all forms of being (including rocks, hills etc.)

—intelligence and humor

—music, poetry, drama, fiction, ideas

—Nature

—fruit, nuts and beautiful women

—easy money and fat girls.

Just returned from a week on a fantastic, lovely desert island:
Isla de la Sombra
. A hauntingly beautiful, desolate place—the desert and the sea, side by side—ah! too much. I was sea-sick with beauty!
Encantada
….

My readings in Tucson, at U of A, were apparently a great success. The auditorium was packed
two nights running
; aisles jammed, people in doorways—biggest audience since Neruda, said one lady. And yet, I feel I did not do my best for such an eager, appreciative crowd. Too much playing to the gallery, going for the cheap gag and the easy laugh. I read them my “Profane Love Poems”—much laughter. And “Revelation”—and dumb fan letters—and ‘The BLOB comes to Arizona.” Not good enough. I feel I let them down a bit, those nine-hundred or so enthusiastic young people.

I played the clown instead of the sage. Was that wise? They came, presumably, for wisdom and beauty; I gave them jokes. The Entertainer. Not enough. Not good enough.

—REMORSE….

All these letters, speaking invitations, etc. But never have I received any letters from old friends at UNM, or any kind of invitation from that school. Letters from strangers every day, but never a word from those I’d most like to hear from.

March 5, 1997—Moab

My father was seventy-six last month (born 1901). My mother is now seventy-two. My grandfather John lived eighty-one years, my grandmother Eleanor seventy, my grandfather C.C. ninety-two years, and Mother’s mother? I don’t know. Anyway, it looks like it’s going to be a long haul. (Is that why I awake so often, in the gray dawn, with a heart full of dread? fear? panic? What am I afraid of? I don’t know. The unknown?)

March 22, 1977—Moab

Gotta be good to my wife. I mean, better. For I’ll never find another woman better than Renee [Abbey’s fourth wife]. Or even half as good. And I know it. And yet I keep making these careless, thoughtless, mindless gestures toward break-up and disaster. Out of sheer sloth! stupidity! Some atavistic blind urge to self-destruction. As if I
wanted
to be lonely and miserable again. As if my present contentment and happiness were not tolerable. As if dejection were my natural norm. As if I hated my good fortune in marrying a girl as pretty, sweet, clever, intelligent and loving as Renee. As if I wanted, once again, to sink into despair, touch rock bottom of the soul one more time. Why?

Is happiness a bore?

God, the absurd pain we inflict not only on one another, but also on ourselves!

April 28, 1977—Moab

Visited Josh and Aaron in Lost Wages [Las Vegas] last weekend. With Suzy. We four had dinner on Top O’ the Mint. Played tennis.

I’m going up on Aztec Peak in the Tonto [National Forest, Arizona] next week. Fire lookout again. I hope finally to finish the fucking novel once ensconced up there.
The Sundown Legend
.

Should go to Australia, become a sheepherder.

Gave a reading at Utah State, Logan, on April 19th. Big hit, I guess. The hall was packed and they laughed at every line. Read them “Notes Found in a Beer Can: A River Journal.” Answered a lot of questions, both pertinent and impertinent. Then a drunken party at Le Bistro. Dim memories of crawling over and under the table. (Legs and tits. All over the place.)

Agreed to write “Smoky the Cop” bit for
Outside
. They finally paid for “Desert Island.”

May 7, 1977—Aztec Peak Fire Lookout, Arizona

Lookout job. A beautiful place: yellow pine and aspen and spruce, eight thousand feet elevation. Spectacular view: Roosevelt [Reservoir], Superstition Mountains, Four Peaks, Mogollon Rim, Salt River Canyon, Sierra Ancha Wilderness, buttes and mesas of the Fort Apache Reservation.

Winds have been howling for three days now. Nobody here but me and Ellie, our black Labrador mutt.

The lookout is a live-in, new (built in 1960), on a fifty-foot tower. No woodstove, unfortunately—only stinking propane. Cistern with rainwater and one decomposing rat, which I removed.

The old man was here, briefly, about twenty-four hours. Absolutely absorbed in his fears—heart trouble. Stroke. He wouldn’t stay longer because he imagined he was having
difficulty breathing at this altitude. He wants sympathy, but if you give him sympathy, he sinks into self-pity. And if you don’t, he does anyway. No solution. What an abject, miserable way to end your life—in fear. I want to be proud of my father, but he’s making it difficult. Or am I being too callous, indifferent, unfeeling? How would I feel and behave if I were in his situation? More bravely,
I hope
. But who knows for certain?