217 ^^^ mystique of the desert 



Were I to believe what certain psychologists have been 

 trying to tell me, the thing which I call a "mystique" and 

 especially what I call "the mystique of the desert" is only 

 the vague aura left behind by certain experiences of in- 

 fancy and childhood. Should I search my memory of the 

 latter I should certainly find there what nearly every other 

 American or European would: a Christmas card showing 

 Wise Men crossing the desert and also, in some school 

 geography, another picture of rolling dunes, a camel and 

 the caption, "Sahara Desert." Both seemed then to be 

 things I should never see; both were remote from the scene 

 of my sorrows — whatever at the moment I found my sor- 

 rows to be. "Poof!" say those psychologists. The "mystique" 

 is mysterious no longer. To adjust yourself to your environ- 

 ment would have been a simple matter. Had you been so 

 adjusted you would never have gone to live in the Ameri- 

 can Southwest. And you would not give a damn whether 

 Dipodomys drinks or not. 



If those psychologists are right, then I am glad that I, 

 at least, was not "adjusted" to everything and hence in- 

 capable of giving a damn about anything whatsoever. But 

 I am not sure that they are right. Curiosity is not always 

 the result of conditioning and there are words at which 

 most imaginations kindle. Among them are all those words 

 which suggest the untamed extravagances or the ultimate 

 limits of nature in any one of her moods. We may prefer 

 to live amid hills and meadows, fields and woodlots, or 

 even, for that matter, surrounded by steel and concrete. 

 But "wilderness," "jungle," and "desert" are still stirring 

 words, as even movie-makers know. And it is just possible 

 that they will continue to be such after the last Christmas 

 card having anything to do with Christmas has disappeared 



