The River

by Peter Heller

He had a goofy smile, like someone caught in the act of talking seriously to a chipmunk.

There’s always relief in committing to a decision, even when there’s no choice.

But sometimes you wanted something to take days and days.

“Hunting and fishing’s so much fun,” he said, “only a pissant needs to lie about it.”

“Paulson said there was a principle in aesthetics: the more you prettify something, the more you risk undermining its value. Its essential value.”

“It’s like when they say this or that writer took a big risk,” he said. “What are the consequences? He might have to hit delete on his laptop?”

The black side was burned to soil; it had not much to say and was startlingly eloquent in its silence.

Rich people are another species. Sort of lost in their own way. It’s a good thing they have country clubs and shit because it keeps them kinda corralled up in one place.

if wolves sang, and coyotes, and elk and birds, and wind, and we, too, it was probably in response to a music we didn’t know we could hear.