WENDELL BERRY SELECTED WORKS
To cherish what remains of the Earth and to foster its renewal is our only legitimate hope of survival. WENDELL WENDELL BERRY BERRY
biography Wendell Berry lives and farms with his family in Henry County, Kentucky and is the author of more than thirty books of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. Among his novels (set in the fictional community of Port William, Kentucky) are Nathan Coulter (1960), A Place on Earth (1967), and The Memory of Old Jack (1974); short story collections include The Wild Birds (1986), Remembering (1988), Fidelity (1993), and Watch With Me (1994); collections of essays include, among many others, A Continuous Harmony (1972), The Unsettling of America (1977), Recollected Essays (1981), and Sex, Economy, Freedom, & Community (1993); and among his many volumes of poetry are A Part (1980), The Wheel (1982), Collected Poems (1985) and Entries (1984). In a commencement address delivered in June 1989 at the College of the Atlantic in Bar Harbor, Maine, Berry gave some advice that to most modern graduates would sound old fashioned, indeed backward. But the advice he gave was timeless, and his reminder seems apocalyptic in view of the world’s current environmental crisis and, as Berry sees it, America’s cultural crisis. In a sense, Berry’s deliverance of such a critical message parallels Moses’ deliverance of the Ten Commandments, for Berry’s advice is also a prescription for cultural healing through the imposition of a set of laws. The laws Berry delivers, however, seem to be Nature’s laws. He closed his address (later published in Harper’s as “The Futility of Global Thinking”) with a series of ten commands, which, he said, “is simply my hope for us all.” These instructions are at the heart of Berry’s personal and literary world, and collectively they express the thesis informing all of his work, a canon now in excess of thirty books of essays, fiction, and poetry. 5
Beware the justice
Understand that there
Understand that no
can be no successful human economy apart from Nature or in defiance of Nature.
amount of education can overcome the innate limits of human intelligence and responsibility. We are not smart enough or conscious enough or alertenough to work responsibly on a gigantic scale.
Love this miraculous world
As far as you are able
Find work, if you can,
In making things
always bigger and more centralized, we make them both more vulnerable in themselves and more dangerous to everything else. Learn, therefore, to prefer small-scale elegance and generosity to large-scale greed, crudity, and glamour.
Make a home.
Put the interest of the
Love your neighbors,
Help to make a community. Be loyal to what you have made.
not the neighbors you pick out, but the ones you have.
that we did not make, that is a gift to us.
make your lives dependent upon your local place, neighborhood, and house hold, which thrive by care and generosity, and independent of the industrial economy, which thrives by damage.
that does no damage. Enjoy your work. Work well.
In 1983, reviewing a book of agricultural essays by Wes Jackson and one by me, Lewis Hyde suggested that our two books were part of an effort of the periphery to be heard by the center. This has stayed in my mind as perhaps the most useful thing that
The global economy is a development, apparently the dichotomy between center and periphery does in fact Exist, the culmination, of the technological and as does the tendency of the center to be ignorant of the periphery. commercial colonialist These terms appear to be plain enough, but orthodoxy that has increasingly dominated as I am going to use them here they may need the world since the Renaissance, the principle a little clarification. We can say, for example, of the orthodoxy being that any commercial that a land grant university is a center with a entity is entitled to wealth according to its designated periphery which it is supposed to power. A center, then, as I will use the term, is maintain and improve. Or an industrial city is wherever the wealth, power, and knowledge of a center with a periphery which it is bound to this overbearing economy have accumulated. influence and which, according to its politics Modern technology, as it has developed from and its power, it may either conserve or damage. oceanic navigation to the internet, has been Or a national or a state government is a center increasingly a centralizing force, enabling ever solemnly entrusted with responsibility for larger accumulations of wealth, power, and peripheral places, but in general it extends knowledge in ever smaller numbers of centers. its protections and favors to the commercial Since my concern here is with the need for centers, which out-vote or out-contribute the communication, or, as I would prefer to say, periphery. But above all, now, the center of conversation between periphery and center, centers, is the global â€œfree marketâ€? economy I must begin with the centerâ€™s characteristic of the great corporations, the periphery of ignorance of the periphery. This, I suppose, which is everywhere, and for its periphery must always have been so, even of the market this center expresses no concern and towns of the world before the Renaissance. acknowledges no responsibility. But in that older world, the cities and towns has been said about my agricultural writing and that of my allies.
mostly (though with significant exceptions) could take for granted that their tributary landscapes were populated by established rural communities that knew both how to make the land produce and how to care for it. It is still true that the center is supported by the periphery. All human
economy is still land-based. To the extent that we must eat and drink and be clothed, sheltered, and warmed, we live from the land. The idea that we have now progressed from a land-based economy to an economy based on information is a fantasy. It is still true also that the people of the center believe that the people of the periphery will always supply their needs from the land and will always keep the land productive: There will always be an abundance of food, fiber, timber, and fuel.
knowledge of the land from which you live belongs to people whom you consider provincials or field niggers or hillbillies or hicks or rednecks, then you are not likely to learn much. Furthermore, the danger increases as the periphery is enlarged; the vulnerability of long supply lines is well understood. To give the most obvious example, the United States has chosen (if that is the right word) to become an importdependent society rather than to live principally from its own land and the work of its own people, as if dependence on imported goods and labor can be consistent with political independence and self determination. This inconsistency is making us, willy-nilly, an imperial power, which perhaps increases “business opportunities” for our government’s corporate sponsors, but certainly increases our fragility and our peril. The economic independence of families, communities, and even regions has now been almost completely destroyed. Far from caring for our land and our rural people, as we would do if we understood our dependence on them, we have not, as a nation, given them so much as a serious thought for half a century. I read, I believe, my full share of commentary on politics and economics by accredited experts, and I can assure you that you will rarely find in any of them even a passing reference to agriculture or forestry. Our great politicians
This too is a fantasy. It is not known, but is simply taken for granted. As its power of attraction increases, the center becomes more ignorant of the periphery. And under the pervasive influence of the center, the economic landscapes of the periphery have fewer inhabitants who know how to care properly for them. Rural areas are now populated mostly by urban people. In fact, there are now many people whose native communities have not only been radically changed but have All human economy is still land-based. the idea that been completely destroyed by some form of ”development.” we have now progressed from a land-based economy Since the end of World War to an economy based on information is a fantasy. II, the social, economic, seem only dimly aware that an actual country and technological forces of lies out there beyond the places of power, wealth, industrialism have thoroughly disintegrated and knowledge. The ultimate official word the rural communities of the United States on agriculture seems to have been spoken by and of other parts of the world also, inducing Dwight Eisenhower’s secretary of agriculture, in them a “mobility” that has Ezra Taft Benson, who told the farmers to boiled over in the cities, disintegrating them. “Get big or get out.” The loss of the old life of rural communities has been written off as an
A predominantly urban population that is
improvement, and only sometimes lamented.
contemptuous of the working people of the
Insofar as the center is dependent upon the periphery, its ignorance of the periphery is not natural or necessary, but is merely dangerous. The danger is increased when this ignorance protects itself by contempt for the people who know. If the most intimate
farms and forests cannot know enough about the country to exercise proper responsibility for its good use. And ignorance in the center
promotes ignorance in the periphery. Knowledge that is not properly valued decreases in value, and so finally is lost. It is not possible to uproot
virtually the whole agricultural population The result, naturally, is that the competence by economic adversity, replacing it with of local intelligence has declined. We are machines and chemicals, and still keep local losing the use of local minds at work on local knowledge of the land and land use at a high problems. The right way to deal with a problem, level of competence. We still know how to supposedly, is to summon an expert from make the land produce, but only temporarily, government, industry, or a university, who for we are losing the knowledge of how to will recommend the newest centrally-devised keep it productive. Wes Jackson has written mechanical or chemical solution. Thus capital and often said that when the ratio of eyes to supposedly replaces intelligence as the basis of acres in agricultural landscapes becomes work, just as information supposedly replaces too wide, when the number of caretakers land as the basis of the economy. declines below a level that varies from place This would be fine, of course, if the any to place but is reckonable for every place, of the recommended solutions were in fact then good husbandry of the land becomes solving the problems. But all too often they impossible. The general complacency about not only fail to solve the problems, but either such matters seems to rest on the assumption make them worse or replace them with new that science can serve as a secure connection and different problems. between land and people, designing means & methods That the center at present is ignorantly dependent of land use and assuring the on the periphery does not suggest that the center is quality and purity of our food. somehow inherently worthless. It is not. The periphery But we cannot escape or needs a center, just as a center needs a periphery. ignore the evidence that this one is unthinkable without the other. they must assumption is false. There is too great a gap
know the truth of their interdependence.
between the science and the practice of agriculture. This gap is inherent
in the present organization of intellectual and academic life, and it formalizes the differences between knowing and doing. It is generally true that agricultural scientists are consumers, not producers, of agricultural products. They eat with the same freedom from farm work, weather, and the farm economy as other consumers, and perhaps with the same naive confidence that a demand will dependably call forth a supply. The assumption that science can serve as an adequate connector between people and land, and thus can effectively replace the common knowledge and culture of local farm communities, by now has the status of an official program –though the
aim of science, more often than not, is to connect capital with profit. The ascendancy of the expert involves a withdrawal or relinquishment of confidence in local intelligence–that is, in the knowledge, experience, and mental competence of ordinary people doing ordinary work.
But we need to consider the possibility that even our remnant farm population possesses knowledge and experience that is indispensable in a rapidly urbanizing world. The center may need to pay attention to the periphery and accept its influence simply in order to survive. I have testimonials to the value of peripheral knowledge, and remarkably they all come from scientists. Among them is one from the geographer, Carl Sauer, who wrote, “If I should move to the center of the mass I should feel that the germinal potential was out there on the periphery.” Similarly, biologist Roger Payne wrote, “Any observant local knows more than any visiting scientist. Always. No exceptions.” That the center at present is ignorantly dependent on the periphery does not suggest that the center is somehow inherently worthless. It is not. The periphery needs a center, just as a center needs a periphery. One is unthinkable without the other. They must know the truth of their interdependence; they must know what they owe to each other. 9
THE SILENCE What must a man do to be at home in the world? There must be times when he is here as though absent, gone beyond words into the woven shadows of the grass and the flighty darknesses of leaves shaking in the wind, and beyond the sense of the weariness of engines and of his own heart, his wrongs grown old unforgiven. It must be with him as though his bones fade beyond thought into the shadows that grow out of the ground so that the furrow he opens in the earth opens in his bones, and he hears the silence
of the tongues of the dead tribesmen buried here a thousand years ago. And then what presences will rise up before him, weeds bearing flowers, and the dry wind 10
rain! What songs he will hear!
Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup. WENDELL BERRY
The spring work had started, and I needed a long night’s rest, or that was my opinion, and I was about to go to bed, but then the telephone rang. It was Elton. He had been getting ready for bed, too, I think, and it had occurred to him then that he was worried. “Andy, when did you see the Rowanberrys?” I knew what he had on his mind. The river was in flood. The backwater was over the bottoms, and Art and Mart would not be able to get out except by boat or on foot. “Not since the river came up.” “Well, neither have I. And their phone’s out. Mary, when did Mart call?” I heard Mary telling him, “Monday night,” and then, “It was Monday night,” Elton said to me. “I’ve tried to call every day since, and I can’t get anybody. That’s four days.” “Well, surely they’re all right.” “Well, that’s what Mary and I have been saying. Surely they are. They’ve been taking care of themselves a long time. But, then, you never know.” “The thing is, we don’t know.” We knew what we were doing, and both of us were a little embarrassed about it. The Rowanberry Place had carried that name since the first deeds were recorded in the log cabin that was the first courthouse at Hargrave. Rowanberrys had been taking care of themselves there for the better part of two hundred years. We knew that Arthur and Martin Rowanberry required as little worrying about as anybody alive. But now, in venturing to worry about them, we had put them, so to speak, under the sign of mortality. They were, after all, the last of the Rowanberrys, and they were getting old. We were uneasy in being divided from them by the risen water and out of touch. It caused us to think of things that could happen.
Elton said, “It’s not hard, you know, to think of things that could happen.” “Well,” I said, “do you think we’d better go see about them?” He laughed. “Well, we’ve thought, haven’t we? I guess we’d better go.” “All right. I’ll meet you at the mailbox.” I hung up and went to get my cap and jacket. “Nobody’s heard from Art and Mart for four days,” I said to Flora. “Their phone’s out.” “And you and Elton are going to see about them,” Flora said. She had been eavesdropping. “I guess we are.” Flora was inclined to be amused at the way Elton and I imagined the worst. She did not imagine the worst. She just dealt with mortality as it happened. I picked up a flashlight as I went out the door, but it was not much needed. The moon was big, bright enough to put out most of the stars. I walked out to the mailbox and made myself comfortable, leaning against it. Elton and I had obliged ourselves to worry about the Rowanberrys, but I was glad all the same for the excuse to be out. The night was still, the country all silvery with moonlight, inlaid with bottomless shadows, and the air shimmered with the trilling of peepers from every stream and pond margin for miles, one full-throated sound filling the ears so that it seemed impossible that you could hear anything else. And yet I heard Elton’s pickup while it was still a long way off, and then light glowed in the air, and then I could see his headlights. He turned into the lane and stopped and pushed the door open for me. I made room for myself among a bundle of empty feed sacks, buckets, and a chain saw. “Fine night,” he said. He lit a cigarette. The cab was fragrant with smoke. “It couldn’t be better, could it?” “Well, the moon could be just a little brighter, and it could be a teensy bit warmer.” I could hear that he was grinning. He was in one of his companionable moods, making fun of himself. I laughed, and we rode without talking out of the Katy’s Branch valley and onto the state road. “It’s awful the things that can get into your mind,” Elton said. “I’d hate it if anything was to happen to them.” 14
The Rowanberrys were Elton’s friends, and because they were his, they were mine. Elton had known them ever since he was just a little half-orphan boy, living with his mother and older brothers on the next farm up the creek. He had got a lot of his raising by being underfoot and in the way at the Rowanberrys’. And in the time of his manhood, the Rowanberry Place had been one of his resting places. Elton worked hard and worried hard, and he was often in need of rest. But he had a restless mind, which meant that he could not rest on his own place in the presence of his own work. If he rested there, first he would begin to think about what he had to do, and then he would begin to do it. To rest, he needed to be in somebody else’s place. We spent a lot of Sunday afternoons down at the Rowanberrys’, on the porch looking out into the little valley in the summertime, inside by the stove if it was winter. Art and Mart batched there together after their mother died, and in spite of the electric lights and telephone and a few machines, they lived a life that would have been recognizable to Elias Rowanberry, who had marked his X in the county’s first deed book–a life that involved hunting and fishing and foraging as conventionally as it involved farming. They practiced an old-fashioned independence, an old-fashioned generosity, and an old-fashioned fidelity to their word and their friends. Mart was the one Elton liked best to work with. Mart was not only a fine hand but had a gift for accommodating himself to the rhythms and ways of his partner. “He can think your thoughts,” Elton said. Between the two of them was a sympathy of body and mind that they had worked out and that they trusted with an unshaken, unspoken trust. And so Elton was always at ease and quiet in Mart’s company when they were at rest. Art was the rememberer. He knew what he knew and what had been known by a lot of dead kinfolks and neighbors. They lived on in his mind and spoke there, reminding him and us of things that needed to be remembered. Art had a compound mind, as a daisy has a compound flower, and his mind had something of the unwary comeliness of a daisy. Something that happened would remind him of something that he remembered, which would remind him of something that his grandfather remembered. It was not that he “lived in his mind.” 15
MARCH 22, 1968 As spring begins the river rises, filling like the sorrow of nations uprooted trees, soil of squandered mountains the debris of kitchens, all passing seaward. At dawn snow began to fall. The ducks, moving north, pass like shadows through the falling white. The jonquils, half-open, bend down with its weight. The plow freezes in the furrow. In the night I lay awake,
thinking of the river rising, the spring heavy with official meaningless deaths.
He lived in the place, but the place was where the memories were, and he walked among them, tracing them out over the living ground. That was why we loved him. We followed the state road along the ridges toward Port William and then at the edge of town turned down the Sand Ripple Road. We went down the hill through the woods, and as we came near the floor of the valley, Elton went more carefully and we began to watch. We crossed a little board culvert that rattled under the wheels, eased around a bend, and there was the backwater, the headlights glancing off it into the treetops, the road disappearing into it. Elton stopped the truck. He turned off his headlights and the engine, and the quietness of the moonlight and the woods came down around us. I could hear the peepers again. It was wonderful what the road going under the water did to that place. It was not only that we could not go where we were used to going; it was as if a thought that we were used to thinking could not be thought. â€œListen!â€? Elton said. He had heard a barred owl off in the woods. He quietly rolled the window down. 16
TO KNOW THE DARK To go in the dark with a light is to know the light To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that
the dark, too, blooms and sings and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
And then, right overhead, an owl answered: “Hooooawww!” And the far one said, “Hoo hoo hoohooaw!” “Listen!” Elton said again. He was whispering. The owls went through their whole repertory of hoots and clucks and cackles and gobbles. “Listen to them!” Elton said. “They’ve got a lot on their minds.” Being in the woods at night excited him. He was a hunter. And we were excited by the flood’s interruption of the road. The rising of the wild water had moved us back in time. Elton quietly opened his door and got out and then, instead of slamming the door, just pushed it to. I did the same and came around and followed him as he walked slowly down the road, looking for a place to climb out of the cut. Once we had climbed the bank and stepped over the fence and were walking among the big trees, we seemed already miles from the truck. The water gleamed over the bottomlands below us on our right; you could not see that there had ever been a road in that place. I followed Elton along the slope through the trees. Neither of us thought to use a flashlight, though we each had one, nor did we talk. The moon gave plenty of light. We could see everything-underfoot the blooms of twinleaf, bloodroot, rue anemone, the little stars of spring beauties, and overhead the littlest branches, even the blooms on the sugar maples. The ground was soft from the rain, and we hardly made a sound. The flowers around us seemed to float in the shadows so that we walked like waders among stars, uncertain how far down to put our feet. And over the broad shine of the backwater, the calling of the peepers rose like another flood, higher than the water flood, and thrilled and trembled in the air. It was a long walk because we had to go around the inlets of the backwater that lay in every swag and hollow. Way off, now and again, we could hear the owls. Once we startled a deer and stood still while it plunged away into the shadows. And always we were walking among flowers. I wanted to keep thinking that they were like stars, but after a while I could not think so. They were not like stars. They did not have that hard, distant glitter. And yet in their pale, peaceful way, they shone. They collected their little share of light and gave it back.
Now and then, when we came to an especially thick patch of them, Elton would point. Or he would raise his hand and we would stop a minute and listen to the owls. I was wider awake than I had been since morning would have been glad to go on walking all night long. Around us we could feel the year coming, as strong and wide and irresistible as a wind. But we were thinking, too, of the Rowanberrys. That we were in a mood to loiter and did not loiter would have reminded us of them, if we had needed reminding. To go to their house, with the water up, would have required a long walk from any place we could have started. We were taking the shortest way, which left us with the problem that it was going to be a little too short. The best we could do, this way, would be to come down the valley until we would be across from the house but still divided from it by a quarter mile or more of backwater. We could call to them from there. But what if we got no answer? What if the answer was trouble? Well, they had a boat over there. If they needed us, one of them could set us over in the boat. But what if we got no answer? What if, to put the best construction upon silence, they could not hear us? Well, we could only go as near as we could get and call. So if our walk had the feeling of a ramble, it was not one. We were going as straight to the Rowanberrys’ house as the water and the lay of the land would allow. After a while we began to expect to see a light. And then we began to wonder if there was a light to see. Elton stopped. “I thought we’d have seen their light by now.” I said, “They’re probably asleep.” Those were the first words we had spoken since we left the truck. After so long, in so much quiet, our voices sounded small. Elton went on among the trees and the shadows, and I followed him. We climbed over a little shoulder of the slope then and saw one window shining. It was the light of an oil lamp, so their electricity was out, too. “And now we’re found,” Elton said. He sang it, just that much of the old hymn, almost in a whisper. We went through a little more of the woods and climbed the fence into the Rowanberrys’ hill pasture. We could see their big barn standing up black now against the moonlight on the other side of the road, which
A PRAISE His memories lived in the place like fingers locked in the rock ledges like roots. When he died
and his influence entered the air I said, let my mind be the earth of his thought, let his kindness go ahead of me. Though I do not escape the history barbed in my flesh, certain wise movements of his hands, turns of his speech keep with me. His hope of peace keeps with me in harsh days, the shell of his breath dimming away three summers in the earth.
was on high ground at that place, clear of the backwater.When we were on the gravel we could hear our steps. We walked side by side, Elton in one wheel track, I in the other, until the road went under the water again. We were as close to the house then as we could get without a boat. We stopped and considered the distance. And then Elton cupped his hands around his mouth, and called, “Ohhhhh, Mart! Ohhhhh, Art!” We waited, it seemed, while Art had time to say, “Did you hear somebody?” and Mart to answer, “Well, I thought so.” We saw light come to another window, as somebody picked up a lamp and opened the hall door. We heard the front door open. And then Art’s voice came across the water: “Yeeeaaah?” And Elton called back, “Are you aaallI riiight?” I knew they were. They were all right, and we were free to go back through the woods and home to sleep. But now I know that it was neither of the Rowanberrys who was under the sign of mortality that night. It was Elton. Before another April came he would be in his grave on the hill at Port William. Old Art Rowanberry, who had held him on his lap, would survive him by a dozen years. And now that both of them are dead, I love to think of them standing with the shining backwater between them, while Elton’s voice goes out across the distance, is heard and answered, and the other voice travels back: “Yeeeaaah!”
The past is our definition. We may strive, for good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it. WENDELL BERRY
PRAYERS AND SAYINGS OF THE MAD FARMER I.
It is presumptuous and irresponsible to pray for other people. A good man would pray only for himselfthat he have as much good as he deserves, that he not receive more good or more evil than he deserves, that he bother nobody, that he not be bothered, that he want less. Praying thus for himself, he should prepare to live with the consequences. At night make me one with the darkness. In the morning make me one with the light. If a man finds it necessary to eat garbage, he should resist the temptation to call it a delicacy.
Don’t pray for the rain to stop. Pray for good luck fishing when the river floods. Don’t own so much clutter that you will be relieved to see your house catch fire.
Beware of the machinery of longevity. When a man’s life is over the decent thing is for him to die. The forest does not withhold itself from death. What it gives up it takes back.
Put your hands into the mire. They will learn the kinship of the shaped and unshapen, the living and the dead.
When I rise up let me rise up joyful like a bird.
When I fall let me fall without regret like a leaf.
Let me wake in the night and hear it raining and go back to sleep.
Sowing the seed, my hand is one with the earth. Wanting the seed to grow, my mind is one with the light. Hoeing the crop, my hands are one with the rain. Having cared for the plants, my mind is one with the air. Hungry and trusting, my mind is one with the earth. Eating the fruit, my body is one with the earth.
Let my marriage be brought to the ground. Let my love for this woman enrich the earth. What is its happiness but preparing its place? What is its monument but a rich field?
By the excellence of his work the workman is a neighbor. By selling only what he would not despise to own the salesman is a neighbor. By selling what is good his character survives his market.
Don’t worry and fret about the crops. After you have done all you can for them, let them stand in the weather on their own. If the crop of any one year was all, a man would have to cut his throat every time it hailed. But the real products of any year’s work are the farmer’s mind and the cropland itself. If he raises a good crop at the cost of belittling himself and diminishing the ground, he has gained nothing. He will have to begin over again the next spring, worse off than before. Let him receive the season’s increment into his mind. Let him work it into the soil. The finest growth that farmland can produce is a careful farmer.
Make the human race a better head. Make the world a better piece of ground. 25
PUBLICATIONS FICTION Fidelity ¤ Hannah Coulter ¤ Jayber Crow ¤ Memory of Old Jack Nathan Coulter ¤ A Place on Earth ¤ Remembering ¤ That Distant Land Watch With Me ¤ The Wild Birds ¤ A World Lost
ESSAYS Another Turn of the Crank ¤ The Art o the Commonplace ¤ Citizenship Papers A Continuous Harmony ¤ The Gift of Good Land ¤ Harlan Hubbard: Life and Work ¤ Home Economics ¤ Life is a Miracle ¤ The Long-Legged House Recollected EssaysL 1965–1980 ¤ Sex, Economy, Freedom and Community Standing by Words ¤ The Unforseen Wilderness ¤ The Unsettling of America What Are People For?
POETRY The Broken Ground ¤ Clearing ¤ Collected Poems 1951–1982 The Country of Marriage ¤ Entries ¤ Farming: A Handbook ¤ Findings Given ¤ Openings ¤ A Part ¤ Sabbaths ¤ Sayings and Doings The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry ¤ A Timbered Choir ¤ The Wheel