A River Runs Through It and Other Stories

by Norman Maclean

To him, all good things—trout as well as eternal salvation—come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy.

The canyon was glorified by rhythms and colors.

Many of us probably would be better fishermen if we did not spend so much time watching and waiting for the world to become perfect.

Without interrupting each other, we both said at the same time, “Let's never get out of touch with each other.” And we never have, although her death has come between us.

“All there is to thinking,” he said, “is seeing something noticeable which makes you see something you weren't noticing which makes you see something that isn't even visible.”

However, one closeup picture of him at the end of this day remains in my mind, as if fixed by some chemical bath.

A river, though, has so many things to say that it is hard to know what it says to each of us.

How can a question be answered that asks a lifetime of questions?

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.