To Strumpshaw Fen with S. From the low-lying path the pleasure boats on the river seem to glide over the reeds. In the hide S. points out a marsh harrier flapping erratically above the reedbed and a cormorant standing on a pole with outstretched wings like some strange idol presiding over this man-managed reserve. Over the meadows shrieking swifts feed on mists of insects they’ll soon carry south across the seas in their bellies. A partridge hops along the path in front of us. We point and laugh at its panicky prance, but there’s no comedy in nature. It hides in the reeds where it stops and looks back at us in what seems like fear as we creep up to it to get a closer look. Sometimes you only see how utterly different wild animals are when you get close to them: the black beads in its head hardly look like eyes, its richly detailed plumage is not for you.
Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.
Notes for a fragmentary novel entitled The Moment, linked at the top of the page.
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