Hoagland, Edward

Edward Hoagland is a novelist and essayist.

Animals used to provide a lowlife way to kill and get away with it, as they do still, but, more intriguingly, for some people they are an aperture through which wounds drain. The scapegoat of olden times, driven off for the bystanders' sins, has become a tender thing, a running injury. There, running away . . . is me: hurt it and you are hurting me. Heart's Desire, 1988.

Someday hunting big game may come to be regarded as a form of vandalism , The Edward Hoagland Reader, 1979.

Wolves and bears are fastidious in their sexual clocking, breeding only so that the bear cubs will be delivered during the denying period and the wolf puppies into the lap of spring. Ibid

.Having driven for eight hours from the city in order to be alone, I'm "dying" of loneliness, can't seem to live with people or live without them. The Tugman's Passage, 1982.

Silence is exhilarating at first - as noise is - but there is a sweetness to silence outlasting exhilaration, akin to the sweetness of listening and the velvet of sleep. Ibid

None of us - not the Times with its bully pulpit nor The New Yorker in its editorial "we," nor Hal Borland, E. B. White, Roger Tory Peterson, Annie Dillard, Edward Abbey, Peter Matthiessen, John McPhee, nor I - have been able to face up to the holocaust that is steadily consuming the natural world. Ibid.

The wood frogs congregate in woodside pools, where they cluck quite clamorously, like chickens falling on top of one another. Ibid.