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We are a people of the frontier, born to it, bred to it, looking always toward it. And when the frontiers of our own land are gone, when we have draw… - Louis L'Amour
" "We are a people of the frontier, born to it, bred to it, looking always toward it. And when the frontiers of our own land are gone, when we have drawn them all into an ordered world, then we must seek other frontiers, the frontiers of the mind beyond which men have not gone, the frontiers that lie out beyond the stars, the frontiers that lie within our own selves, that hold us back from what we would do, what we would achieve.
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About Louis L'Amour
Louis Dearborn L'Amour /ˈluːi ləˈmʊr/ (22 March 1908 – 10 June 1988) was an American novelist and short story writer whose works consisted primarily of Western novels, which he called his "frontier stories", but who also wrote historical fiction, science fiction, nonfiction and poetry.
Biography information from Wikiquote
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Alternative Names:
Tex Burns
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Additional quotes by Louis L'Amour
It has seemed to me that each year one should pause to take stock of himself, to ask: Where am I going? What am I becoming? What do I wish to do and become?
Most people whom I encountered were without purpose, people who had given themselves no goal. The first goal need not be the final one, for a sailing ship sails first by one wind, then another. The point is that it is always going somewhere, proceeding toward a final destination.
"She handed him the blankets and the ground sheet and he shook them out, then put them down under the trees. Angie got down on her knees and spread the ground sheet over the leaves, then the blankets.
'You never forget do you? I mean about seeing things first.'
'Hope I never.'
He was oddly uncomfortable, hesitant. 'Good way to lose your hair, not noticing things.'
He sat down and pulled off his boots. The cottonwoods whispered more softly. The squirrel gave one short inquiring chatter, then was silent.
The lone coyote spoke to the sky and the stream rustled busily about the stones. A bit of mud fell into the stream with a faint plop.
It was night and there was no sound. Or anyway, not very much." (p 154)
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