Passages from A River Runs Through It

In our family there was no clear line between religion and fly-fishing. [Older Norman]

As a Presbyterian, my father believed that man by nature was a damn mess. And that only by picking up God's rhythms, were we able to regain power and beauty. To him, all good things, trout as well as eternal salvation come by Grace. And Grace comes by art. And art does not come easy. [Older Norman]

And I knew just as surely, just as clearly, that life is not a work of art, and that the moment could not last. [Older Norman]

“It’s not much, is it?” [the father, wanting in formation about Paul’s death, and Paul]

“No,” I replied [Norman], “but you can love completely without complete understanding.”

It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us. [Older Norman]

Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.  [Older Norman]

As time passes, my father struggled for more to hold on to, asking me again and again: had I told him everything. And I finally said to him, "maybe all I know about Paul is that he was a fine fisherman."

"You know more than that," my father said; "he was beautiful."

. . . And that was the last time we spoke of my brother's death. [Older Norman]

Long ago, when I was a young man, my father said to me... "Norman, you like to write stories?" And I said, "Yes, I do." Then he said, "Someday, when you're ready... you might tell our family story. Only then will you understand what happened and why." [Older Norman]

Then in the Artic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.  The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time.  On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops.  Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters. [Older Norman, last lines of novella]