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Edward Abbey

April 22, 2012 | By Susan Straight
In this age of Kindle and iPad and e-books, I write by hand, on little notepads, in my car. I have written in my car since I was 22 and working on my first novel. Then, the car was a broken-down pale green Fiat. I sat in the driver's seat while my then-husband worked on it in our gravel driveway, yelling at me to pump the brakes or start the engine. Now I write in my 2009 Honda CRV while waiting in the high school parking lot for my youngest, or even at the curb in front of my house - the way Raymond Carver used to - before I go inside.
May 22, 1989 | BOB SIPCHEN, Times Staff Writer
Edward Abbey died on March 14 at age 62. That evening, friends hauled the author of "The Monkeywrench Gang" into the desert and buried him under a big pile of black rocks, somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. Over the weekend, some of those same friends, accompanied by hundreds of others, walked into another part of that vast slick rock and cacti cemetery to celebrate the life of a man, who, more quickly than any writer since Jack Kerouac, has been resurrected as a modern myth.
June 4, 1989 | Bill McKibben, "The End of Nature," McKibben's book on the greenhouse effect, will be published by Random House in the fall. and
John Burroughs was an odd sort of nature writer. Disdaining exploration and adventure, he stayed put in the gentle Catskill mountains of his birth. He would venture forth occasionally--Teddy Roosevelt asked him along on his presidential visits to the western parks--but he was invariably unimpressed. Yellowstone's geysers struck him as "out of place, as if nature had made a mistake," he suggested that their power be harnessed to heat the nearby hotels. When he visited Yosemite, he sulked till he spotted a robin, "the first I had seen since leaving home."
June 25, 1989 | Art Seidenbaum, Seidenbaum is The Times' Opinion editor
Read your way into the Massachusetts woods with John Jerome; out come echoes of Walden Pond and Tinker Creek and all those outdoor kindred spirits from Ralph Waldo Emerson to Edward Abbey or Edward Hoagland. This is that fertile soil where, in Emersonian terms, the civilized creature leaves urbanity, dives into nature, thrashes among fallen leaves and finally unpacks the bags only to discover that the luggage of the other life is still important. Leaves, weather and landfall matter.
March 23, 1989
It was with great sadness that I learned of the death of author Edward Abbey. I will not be able to think of the arid beauty of northern Arizona or Utah's Canyonlands without his writings coming to mind. I hope that his publishers will release the draft of his last novel. A sequel to "The Monkey Wrench Gang" will be welcomed with open arms. Thank you, Mr.
January 14, 1990 | Charles Bowden
" . . . the damn thing is alive. When you finish, the tale lives on in your head, which is the most a book can do."
October 29, 1995 | Philip L. Fradkin
The cycle of extreme floods and droughts during the past dozen years illustrates how fragile is our hold on the water that sustains the West. It seems like ancient history now, but it was only a few years ago that drought busters roamed L.A. streets and issued citations for wasting water; California, Nevada and Arizona were denied Colorado River water for the first time; Lake Powell recorded its lowest levels from 1987 to 1992.
September 27, 2005
It was a true pleasure in this concrete mess to open the paper and read Ken Lamberton's essay on Edward Abbey ["His Preferred Immortality," Sept. 20], one of our greatest outdoor writers and activists. STEVE TYLER Orange
January 19, 2000
This Sunday: John Reader on "African Ceremonies"; Sherman Alexie on Ian Frazier's "On the Rez"; Jonathan Levi on Robert Olen Butler's "Mr. Spaceman"; and Douglas Brinkley with an appreciation of Edward Abbey on the 25th anniversary of the publication of "The Monkey Wrench Gang."
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