Annie Dillard’s Weasel contemplates the umwelt of John Lennon. Having seized its last muskrat the weasel rides to heaven on a trail of half-eaten flesh and bones. Once arrived, its esteem for wildness fades and its true nature is revealed.
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“One of the things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good […]
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“On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of the conditions. Does any-one have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing […]
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