“Clear waters drift through the immensity of a tall forest.In front of me a huge river mouthreceives the long wind.Deep ripples hold white sandand white fish swimming as in a void.I sprawl on a big rock,billows nourishing my humble body.I gargle with water and wash my feet.A fisherman pauses out on the surf.So many fish long for bait. I lookonly to the east with its lotus leaves.”

“Death is like a fisherman who has caught a fish in his net and leaves it for a time in the water: the fish still swims about, but the net surrounds it, and the fisherman will take it when he wishes.”

“Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.I am haunted by waters.”

“the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water”

“But I think that I have already been moving too long in a sphere which is not my own. Flying fishes can hold out for a time in the air, but soon they must splash back into the water; allow me, too, to paddle in my own element.”

“A man was fishing and caught a fish. The fish was so small he threw it back in the water and for the first time in its life the fish realized it was swimming in something.”