Wendell Berry was the kind of fellow who hated to go anywhere without his pocketknife or his dog. He was the kind of fellow who spoke to me, the kind of writer I read.
News of any death is sad. But I’m grateful that such a writer lived in our lifetime. The landscapes he saw are the landscapes in front of us now. We can see them, appreciate them and conserve them. Or we can, as we are apt to do, see nothing much at all.
I’m going to be reading Berry for bit. I think I’ll start with A Timbered Choir.
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