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...and he began to run after them. He was running... and there was no reason to run but running itself and the land and the dawn appearing. The sun r… - N. Scott Momaday
" "...and he began to run after them. He was running... and there was no reason to run but running itself and the land and the dawn appearing. The sun rose... and shone in shafts upon the road across the snow-covered valley and hills. ...His legs buckled and he fell in the snow. ...And he got up and ran on. He was alone and running on... he was past caring about the pain... and he could see at last without having to think. He could see the canyons and the mountains and the sky. He could see the rain and the river and the fields beyond... and under his breath he began to sing... House made of pollen, house made of dawn...
English
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About N. Scott Momaday
N. Scott Momaday (February 27, 1934 – January 24, 2024) was a Kiowa novelist, short story writer, essayist and poet. His novel House Made of Dawn was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1969, and is considered the first major work of the Native American Renaissance. His follow-up work The Way to Rainy Mountain blended folklore with memoir. Momaday received the National Medal of Arts in 2007 for his work's celebration and preservation of indigenous oral and art traditions. He held twenty honorary degrees from colleges and universities and was a fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences.
Biography information from Wikiquote
Also Known As
Birth Name:
Navarre Scott Momaday
Alternative Names:
Navarre Scott Mammedaty
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Additional quotes by N. Scott Momaday
I am an elder, and I keep the earth. When I was
a boy I first became aware of the beautiful world
in which I lived. It was a world of rich colors — red
canyons and blue mesas, green fields and yellow-
ochre sands, silver clouds, and mountains that
changed from black to charcoal to purple and iron. It
was a world of great distances. The sky was so deep
that it had no end, and the air was run through with
sparkling light. It was a world in which I was wholly
alive. I knew even then that it was mine and that I
would keep it forever in my heart. It was essential
to my being. I touch pollen to my face. I wave cedar
smoke upon my body. I am a Kiowa man. My Kiowa
name is Tsoai-talee, “Rock Tree Boy.” These are the
words of Tsoai-talee.
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And he did not want to break the stillness of the night, for it was holy and profound; it was rest and restoration, the hunter’s offering of death and the sad watch of the hunted, waiting somewhere away in the cold darkness and breathing easily of its life, brooding around at last to forgiveness and consent; the silence was essential to them both, and it lay out like a bond between them, ancient and inviolable.
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