The Trackers

by Charles Frazier

public art could be like a pebble thrown into a still pond, a small influence but spreading in all directions.

There’s not but one true trail through the world, and all the truth you can say of it is it’s there. Everything else is a guess, your own made-up bullshit. There’s really no such thing as a guide. Just the trail.

You could have boiled it down to cattle and railroads and been done with it.

The law was whoever had the most guns, same as it always was throughout history.

Crazy Horse got in and out of life without getting photographed, and that seems like some kind of victory.

Man, only rubes call it Frisco. Don’t embarrass yourself.

In other words, do the boring due-diligence shit I should have done before I married her but was too crazy in love to think about.

There’s worse things than dying.

Truth? God bless you, but you’ll die looking for it.

Florida is an exhausting state.

The mood I was in, I saw the large sweep of American history as Florida’s assault on civilization.

Seems like about every system we’ve thought up contains enough loopholes for greed and self-interest to sneak in and spread like weeds.

I liked Latin better than typing, and it made sense to me, like a secret code that—surprise—you already knew some of.