"Then out of the dust came the soldiers on their big horses. They
looked big and
strong and tall and they were all shooting. Then another great cry went up out in
the dust: 'Crazy Horse is coming! Crazy Horse is coming!' Off toward
the west and
north they were yelling 'Hoka Hey!' like a big wind roaring, and making
the tremolo;
and you could hear eagle bone whistles screaming. The valley went dark with dust and
smoke, and there were only shadows and a big noise of many cries and hoofs and guns.
There was a soldier on the ground and he was still kicking. A Lakota rode up and said
to me: 'Boy, get off and scalp him.' I got off and startred to do it.
He had short
hair and my knife was not very sharp. He ground his teeth. Then I shot him in the
forehead and got his scalp. I thought I would show my mother my scalp, so I rode
over toward the hill where there was a crowd of women and children."
(Neihardt, Black Elk Speaks)
Writing, in its noblest function, is the attempt to unerase, to unearth, to find
the primitive picture again, ours, the one that frightens us.
(Helene Cixous, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing ).