As I Get Considerably Beyond The Biblical

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.

Poets Talk About "spots Of Time", But It Is Really The Fishermen Who Experience Eternity Compressed Into A Moment. No One Can Tell What A Spot Of Time Is Until Suddenly The Whole World Is A Fish And The Fish Is Gone.

The Nearest Anyone Can Come To Finding Himself At Any Given Age Is To Find A Story That Somehow Tells Him About Himself.

When I Was Young, A Teacher Had Forbidden Me To Say "more Perfect" Because She Said If A Thing Is Perfect It Can't Be More So. But By Now I Had Seen Enough Of Life To Have Regained My Confidence In It.

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.