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400 pages, Paperback
First published February 18, 2020
I have never been able to regard the Indian as merely an object for study - a museum specimen. A half-century rubbing shoulders with them, during which I have had a share in almost every phase of their old-time life, forbids me to think of them except as acquaintances, comrades, and friends.His works ran counter to the only other narratives of the time - that of the Army - because since “the Indians could not write, the history of their wars had been set down by their enemies.” (For perspective, I recommend History Lessons , US history as told in textbooks of other countries around the world...quite enlightening for the historically myopic American student...and citizen) Grinnell spent a lot of time listening to the Cheyenne stories, something apparently few “white men” actually did, compiling them in The Fighting Cheyennes. Margaret Mead and Ruth Bunzel said none came closer than his (I’m guessing The Cheyenne Indians...the Mead/Bunzel quote only refers to it as “Grinnell’s classic monograph”) to the Indian everyday life.
The more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us, the less taste we have for destruction.That’s a wonderful sentiment that I came to embrace decades ago. Unfortunately, there are too many people in this country ascribing the wonders and realities to a supernatural and then giving themselves license to own, ravage and destroy them. Grinnell focused his attention on the wonders and realities of his universe. Hatch does a very good job condensing the prolific writings of Grinnell’s evolution into a few chapters, capturing Grinnell’s distaste for the destruction of his time.
An artist’s palette, splashed with all the hues of his color box, would not have shown more varied contrasts. [...] In the valley were the greens of the deciduous shrubs, great patches of deep maroon of the changing lobelia, lakes turbid or darkly blue, somber evergreens; on the mountainside foaming cascades, with their white whirling mist wreathes, gray blue ice masses, and fields of gleaming snow. Over all arched a leaden sky, whose shadows might dull, but could never efface, the bewildering beauty of the mass of color.Good stuff. And never enough time to read more of his writings.