Moché’s Reviews > The Best of Edward Abbey > Status Update
Moché
is 31% done
Mesquite burns with a slow hot flame.
Fire is magic, a purifying and sanctifying magic, and most especially a mesquite fire on a sand dune at evening under desert skies, on the shore of a pool that gleams like polished agate, like garnet, like a tiger’s eye.
The sun goes down. A few stray clouds catch fire, burn gold, vermillion, and driftwood blue in the unfathomed sea of space.
— Jul 25, 2026 06:13PM
Fire is magic, a purifying and sanctifying magic, and most especially a mesquite fire on a sand dune at evening under desert skies, on the shore of a pool that gleams like polished agate, like garnet, like a tiger’s eye.
The sun goes down. A few stray clouds catch fire, burn gold, vermillion, and driftwood blue in the unfathomed sea of space.
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Moché’s Previous Updates
Moché
is 80% done
Early in the morning I hear coyotes singing again, calling up the sun.
☀️☀️☀️
— Jul 29, 2026 08:17PM
☀️☀️☀️
Moché
is 65% done
A bear does not pick berries with a little tin pail; the bear grasps an entire blackberry branch between its paws, bends it down and into the mouth, and strips it clean of berries, thorns, leaves, bugs, spiders, everything. The bear rolls this mix around for a while in its mouth, looking thoughtful, like a wine lover sampling a new wine, makes distinctions, spits out the leaves and thorns, and grabs another branch.
— Jul 27, 2026 10:42PM
Moché
is 55% done
Walking up the trail to my lookout tower last night, I saw the new moon emerge from a shoal of clouds and hang for a time beyond the black silhouette of a shaggy, giant Douglas fir. What I saw was the moon - the moon itself, nothing else; and the tree, alive and conscious in its own spiral of time; and my hands, palms upward, raised toward the sky. We are. And each such moment holds all that we could possibly need.
— Jul 26, 2026 10:06PM
Moché
is 18% done
Looking out on this panorama of light, space, rock and silence I am inclined to congratulate the dead man. I envy him the manner of his going: to die alone, on rock under sun at the brink of the unknown, like a wolf, like a great bird. To die in the open, under the sky, before this desert vastness opening like a window onto eternity—that surely was an overwhelming stroke of rare good luck.
— Jul 24, 2026 08:05PM
Moché
is 20% done
Roy is a leather-hided old man with gray hair, red nose & yellow teeth; he is kind, gentle, well-meaning, but worries too much, takes things too seriously. He’s afraid of having a heart attack, falling off the horse, dying there on the sand, under the sun, among the flies, weeds & indifferent cattle. Seems to me like a decent, clean way of taking off, better than the slow rot in a hospital with bedsores & bedpans.
— Apr 18, 2026 01:34PM
Moché
is 7% done
McMurtry called him “the Thoreau of the American West.” I’ve read some of his work but really I’ve only scratched the surface. I live and breathe the wilds so I should have dug into more of his works a lot sooner.
Typically I eschew “best of” collections however he put this together himself and declared it damn tight or something like that ☺️ so I grab my pack and bottle and Bowie and head out.
— Apr 18, 2026 07:49AM
Typically I eschew “best of” collections however he put this together himself and declared it damn tight or something like that ☺️ so I grab my pack and bottle and Bowie and head out.
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Jul 25, 2026 06:56PM
We’re in the heart of summer, I live in the mountains and wilderness, and I desperately wanted to read beautiful and poetic writing about Nature 🏔️🔥
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Salmon-colored clouds float over the water. Reflecting that light, those images, the sea, now still, looks like molten copper. The iron, wrinkled, savage mountains take on, briefly, a soft and beguiling radiance, as if illuminated from within. Canyons we have yet to look at—deep, narrow, blue black with shadow—wind into the rocky depths. Sitting on a hill above our camp, listening to the doves calling far out there, I feel again the old sick romantic urge to fade away into those mountains, to disappear, to merge and meld with the ultimate, the unnameable, the bedrock of being. Face to face with the absolute—whatever it is. Sweet oblivion, final revelation. Easy now. What’s the hurry? I light a cigar instead.
A favorite author of mine. Enjoy his exquisite descriptions of nature in life the West.
I’m right with you in that Christine :)
So beautifully poetic, Murray, the colors are aligned with summertime 🧡🔆Thank you!
Margarida that’s so kind. Gracias 🌺 ☀️
In Portuguese we call it
arrebol
: when the sky is red and orange at sunrise and at sunset. Obrigada 🌞
Ah! I have Lisbon friends. I knew obrigada. One of my favorite novels is Remarque’s The Night in Lisbon. Glad we met. 🔴🟠
I hope you’re loving the book, Murray! 👀:)
Boker tov Debbie :) I just so needed some Nature talking with a splash of mysticism thrown in. Looking forward to your next review. Life 🖤🌿
Murray wrote: "Ah! I have Lisbon friends. I knew obrigada. One of my favorite novels is Remarque’s The Night in Lisbon. Glad we met. 🔴🟠"It's in my TBR. In a certain way it reminds me of the "Night Train To Lisbon", by Pascal Mercier, a very good one too.
I'm glad we met as well 😊
Thank you Margarida. Pascal Mercier. I will check that out :)
Murray wrote: "Thank you Margarida. Pascal Mercier. I will check that out :)"You're welcome, Murray. The book also has a movie adaptation 🎥
Avva! 🏺 it’s great to see you! Thx!! ☀️☀️☀️