Writing is selection. Just to start a piece of writing you have to choose one word and only one from more than a million in the language. Now keep go… - John McPhee

In six thousand years, you could never grow wings on a reptile. With sixty million, however, you could have feathers, too.

It has been Anita’s style as a geologist to begin with an outcrop and address herself to history from there — to begin with what she can touch, and then to reason her way back through time as far as she can go. A river conglomerate, as tangible rock, unarguably presents the river. The river speaks of higher ground. The volume of sediment that the river has carried can imply a range of mountains. To find Precambrian jaspers in the beds of younger rivers means that the Precambrian, the so-called basement rock, was lifted to form the mountains. These are sensible inferences drawn cleanly through an absence of alternatives. To go back in this way, retrospectively, from scene to shifting scene, is to go down the rock column, groping toward the beginning of the world. There is firm ground some of the way. Eventually, there comes a point where inference will shade into conjecture. In recesses even more remote, conjecture may usurp the original franchise of God.

In making war with nature, there was risk of loss in winning.