Dale Easley's Favorite Quotations

Dale Easley's Favorite Quotations

Maclean, Norman

A River Runs Through It

Maclean, Norman

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's Disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.

``You are too young to help anybody and I am too old,'' he said. ``By help I don't mean courtesy like serving chokecherry jelly or giving money.
``Help,'' he said, ``is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to accept it willingly and needs it badly.
``So it is,'' he said, using an old homiletic transition, ``that we can seldom help anybody. Either we don't know what part to give or maybe we don't like to give any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed. It is like the auto-supply shop over town where they always say, `Sorry, we are just out of that part.''' [p.~81]

Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.
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 rock from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are triers.
I am haunted by waters. [p.~104]

A River Runs Through It
Maclean, Norman
In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's Disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman. ``You are too young to help anybody and I am too old,'' he said. ``By help I don't mean courtesy like serving chokecherry jelly or giving money. ``Help,'' he said, ``is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to accept it willingly and needs it badly. ``So it is,'' he said, using an old homiletic transition, ``that we can seldom help anybody. Either we don't know what part to give or maybe we don't like to give any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed. It is like the auto-supply shop over town where they always say, `Sorry, we are just out of that part.''' [p.~81] Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them. 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 rock from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are triers. I am haunted by waters. [p.~104]

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