The Hero's Will Is Not That Of

The Most Radical Division That It Is Possible To Make Of Humanity Is That Which Splits It Into Two Classes Of Creatures: Those Who Make Great Demands On Themselves, Piling Up Difficulties And Duties; And Those Who Demand Nothing Special Of Themselves, But For Whom To Live Is To Be Every Moment What They Already Are, Without Imposing On Themselves Any Effort Towards Perfection, Mere Buoys That Float On The Waves.

Man In A Word Has No Nature; What He Has... Is History.

The Hunter Who Accepts The Sporting Code Of Ethics Keeps His Commandments In The Greatest Solitude, With No Witness Or Audience Other Than The Sharp Peaks Of The Mountain, The Roaming Cloud, The Stern Oak, The Trembling Juniper, And The Passing Animal.

Living Is Nothing More Or Less Than Doing One Thing Instead Of Another.

Life Is A Terrible Conflict, A Grandiose And Atrocious Confluence. Hunting Submerges Man Deliberately In That Formidable Mystery And Therefore Contains Something Of Religious Rite And Emotion In Which Homage Is Paid To What Is Divine, Transcendent, And In The Laws Of Nature.