Being born, in Kerouac’s lexicon, was sin enough; at least he hadn’t made the same mistake twice.
Snyder, the ecologically minded Woodstock nation of the 1960s, refusing to be “imprisoned,” in Japhy Ryder’s words, “in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume.”
Snyder was proud to be one of the small band whose members had “freely chosen to disaffiliate [themselves] from the ‘American standard of living.’”
“Pretty girls make graves,” was my saying, whenever I’d had to turn my head around involuntarily to stare at the incomparable pretties of Indian Mexico.