an aside, from Nabokov, not particularly germaine, but what the hell--I'll go with it.
Literature was born not the day when a boy crying wolf, wolf came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels: literature was born on the day when a boy came crying wolf, wolf and there was no wolf behind him. That the poor little fellow because he lied too often was finally eaten up by a real beast is quite incidental. But here is what is important. Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-between. That go-between, that prism, is the art of literature.
Ooooh, I love that. And I think it is relevant. There is something made up, imaginary, human about these wolves. These are literary wolves, the shimmering go-between beast and no-wolf.
It's so very true Alan. The guide was joking that he wished he had Tinder for wolves which was a good line (that I stole for the title) but I was thinking that Tinder for humans doesn't seem to produce good matches with any regularity either. And also very true about been damaged and captives of our environment -- caged too, and not able to express our inner freedom all too often. Yeesh. On that note, hope you're doing well.
What a wonderful piece you've written, on that lonely wolf. I can still hear his barks. And I forgot that our guide was a Wolf Yenta! And a good one, apparently. They seem to all get along. I forgot that the Blue Buffalo wolves were there. I'm so glad you made it safely through the rain! Those roads were bad. I didn't want you on the phone with me, or trying to race there. I'm glad my voice was calming. Sadly the B&B looks booked up on full moon nights except for right before Christmas... but that might be nice.
an aside, from Nabokov, not particularly germaine, but what the hell--I'll go with it.
Literature was born not the day when a boy crying wolf, wolf came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels: literature was born on the day when a boy came crying wolf, wolf and there was no wolf behind him. That the poor little fellow because he lied too often was finally eaten up by a real beast is quite incidental. But here is what is important. Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-between. That go-between, that prism, is the art of literature.
Ooooh, I love that. And I think it is relevant. There is something made up, imaginary, human about these wolves. These are literary wolves, the shimmering go-between beast and no-wolf.
in some ways, we humans are like these wolves; lamed, damaged; captives of our environment, struggling to find the right mate
It's so very true Alan. The guide was joking that he wished he had Tinder for wolves which was a good line (that I stole for the title) but I was thinking that Tinder for humans doesn't seem to produce good matches with any regularity either. And also very true about been damaged and captives of our environment -- caged too, and not able to express our inner freedom all too often. Yeesh. On that note, hope you're doing well.
What a wonderful piece you've written, on that lonely wolf. I can still hear his barks. And I forgot that our guide was a Wolf Yenta! And a good one, apparently. They seem to all get along. I forgot that the Blue Buffalo wolves were there. I'm so glad you made it safely through the rain! Those roads were bad. I didn't want you on the phone with me, or trying to race there. I'm glad my voice was calming. Sadly the B&B looks booked up on full moon nights except for right before Christmas... but that might be nice.
Thanks so much. And I think pre-Christmas with wolves sounds like an ideal festive getaway. :)