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330 pages, Hardcover
First published October 28, 2014
. . . I always seem to be looking at the hard knot that is our myth of the cowboy West: the violence on the movie screen and behind it and the way the humanity has been hollowed out of our movie heroes and villains, the poverty, isolation, and precariousness of ranch work, the dignity and joy of it, and the necessary cruelty. At the start I thought that if I could get everything right, people would see where the cowboy stories went wrong, what we have missed or lost, and they might see that the cowboy life doesn't have to be so goddamn brave and bloody and lonesome as the movies make it out to be. But I have learned over the years that all I can do is reach for something difficult--try to get the colors right and the negative space, the angle of the light. And if a few people can see it, that has to be enough.
It was a relief to be away from the concrete sidewalks and under the shade of those big old canyon oaks. And a shock, almost, to hear quiet for the first time in two days. Once I left the road and hiked down into the gully, there was almost no traffic noise, no rattling streetcars, no buses whining through the gears, no muttered voices through cheap hotel walls, just a lot of bird chatter–California birds, their strange sounds not the ones I recognized–and the understory buzz that crickets and grasshoppers make, and every so often the dry rustle of a snake or a squirrel or a gopher moving off through the brush. I think that may have been the point at which I realized I’d been taking such things for granted my whole life.