[APPLAUSE]
Hi, thank you so much for being here.
And I'm so afraid it's too cold for everybody
because I was going to read a little chunk that's
maybe 25 minutes.
I could read a shorter little chunk.
[AUDIENCE DISSENTING]
You sure?
OK, OK, OK, thank you, thank you.
If I see people--
it's cold.
[LAUGHTER]
So the portion I'll read tonight comes near the end of "Harrow"
where a 10-year-old judge, Jeffrey, is holding court.
To sometimes test those who come before him,
the judge shows two seemingly identical
pictures and asks the differences between them,
the enumerated.
Or he asks the defendants to explain Kafka's story,
The Hunter Gracchus.
He has recently dismissed the girl Khristen
whom he is met in a previous life
or after life when they resided at a decaying
resort on a large, dead lake.
This is me trying to familiarize yourself
with what comes next, which I'm sure isn't helping at all.
[LAUGHTER]
Again, thank you so much for coming to the reading.
"Jeffrey was in his chambers dipping a cookie
into a glass of milk.
It doesn't make sense, he said soundlessly
and widened his eyes.
It's not fair, he mimed and pouted.
The milk wasn't satisfactorily cold.
It wasn't easy to keep milk cold once you started to drink it.
It was well nigh impossible.
I don't understand why I'm here, he whined soundlessly
in imitation.
Usually, he wasn't this mean.
He did not mock or presume.
He did not take this position for granted.
He was dignified and appreciative.
He loved his work, the law.
He was born for the bench.
Because of his seniority, and at his request,
he didn't get the drunks.
The drunks gave him hives, and they
made him very, very impatient.
He'd take a mass murderer or technological utopian
over a drunk any day.
But in general, those who came before him
were all pretty much the same.
He kept in mind the note Darwin had scribbled to himself when
he was hashing out evolution: "never use
the words higher and lower."
He'd buy that note if he could, get a nice frame for it.
Maybe it would come up for auction.
Stuff always did.
There'll always be collectors, always vaults.
Better to store seeds than scribblings, in his informed
opinion, however.
He put the cookie and milk aside,
best part of his day, cloying aftertaste and all.
He'd wearied of the frightened surprise the majority exhibited
in the courtroom when they perceived him a mere child.
At the age of 10, neurological development
is pretty much complete, he'd sometimes take
the bother of telling them.
You knew that, didn't you?
They did not.
There were things he'd like to do, sure.
He'd like to change his name.
He'd like to be called Enoch, from henceforth,
Enoch, who was taken from Earth by the Almighty
without passing through death.
You'd think more would have been made of such an accomplishment.
He'd like to play in the snow.
He'd like to make a snowman, but there was no snow.
He'd like to shout, clear the courtroom.
He'd always wanted to do that, though it would
be frightfully irresponsible.
Yet, he'd had that interesting case this morning.
Her visit was not totally unexpected.
You, he thought, all but born you.
He ruffled himself in his black robes
much as a bird would in her feathers.
Clear the courtroom, he said without speaking, playfully.
Jeffrey, Enoch, went to the windows
and looked down toward the park.
There was the interesting case, quite alone.
As an interesting case, she can anticipate no present moment.
She possessed only the future, which she was still
powerless to change.
He studied her a while longer in the shrunken space
before which she fretted.
Even in his time, it had been larger.
What do you call it, a sacred grove, a temenos.
It had once been asylum, and within it was
one asulos, the inviolable.
It protected what was within and excluded
that which was without.
You can't beat Greek, he thought.
He felt a special relationship with the great Hellenes.
They had invented logic, had they not?
Temenos, the word comes from temno,
to cut, something cut from the meaningless, profane layer
of life, something removed and isolated for a special purpose.
In fact, it was the trees that had been cut, cut, cut,
for there had been many more, even
in his time, a veritable grove of them.
Now there was the one, and there were designs on that.
He'd heard the rumors in his own courtroom.
Once that tree came down, the place
could be rechristened as a soccer field, first thing
to be established after a catastrophe
or after a war peters out, shows it's OK to have fun again,
shows the indomitability of the human spirit.
Outside the park, the Earth was spongy, flooded, soft.
It was practically smoking, a not fit dwelling place.
How small the enclosure had become.
He glanced at the sky.
Disheartening.
The Greeks were blind to blue and green.
They would have perceived the sky
to be, in fact, what it was, an excrementitious brown.
He told her to come back.
What a folly, perhaps even an injustice.
It was unprecedented, but he was curious about her.
And of course, she dizzyingly brought back
that peculiar interlude when he was adrift, dependent,
when he didn't know what he was, uncomfortable,
uncomfortable in his own skin.
But he'd had the law even then, which he could mimic,
and the law's blustering treaties with the dead.
He pictured the Hunter Gracchus in his courtroom,
fresh off the black bark, ice encrusting its rotting sails,
carted in under a floral bedsheet.
His presence would be no more unusual than what had happened
that day with her showing up.
But he was confident that, with a little ingenuity,
he could resolve that case.
Gracchus was just the simple man of the forest,
at sea, a fish out of water, not up
to the demands of his situation.
He'd issue a few writs, tour the vessel perhaps,
find the wormhole.
Kafka need not be involved.
Gracchus, the literal expression in a concrete image
of an abstraction.
That was what Kafka did best, and what
a comedian, the peculiar painting in the ship's cabin,
the doves, the 50 little boys in attendance, Gracchus's dog.
Had there been dogs?
He frowned.
He'd been told he had a mind like a steel trap.
He did have a mind like a steel trap,
but did Gracchus have dogs when he fell down that ravine?
He returned to his desk and picked up the same pages
he had given her to read.
He read them carefully.
There was the wind, the wine, the doltish inquiries,
always the wrong questions.
There were the 50 little boys, but the dogs
had vanished from the story for some reason.
Jeffrey suddenly felt a great weariness.
He rubbed his eyes.
His grandfather had told him that if he rubbed his eyes
religiously, as it were, he'd make them larger
and thus be more commanding in court.
The diameter of the human eye is about 10%
of the height of the head, his grandfather said.
If you could boost your eye index up to say 18%--
20% would be superb--
you'd have them quaking in their undies.
Dad, dad, his father would say.
You're scaring him.
I am not scaring this boy, his grandfather would say.
You're scaring me, dad.
That's because you are not him, his grandfather would say.
You're a burbling disappointment,
a little teapot.
Jeffrey, his grandfather would address him once more,
Glaukopis, owl-eyed , the great Athena's epithet, wisdom,
Jeffrey, knowledge.
Let the great owl-eyed Athena be your guide.
And Jeffrey would rub his eyes until they burned.
Oh, what was the point.
Sure, he was commanding in court.
Sure, he had them quaking in their undies.
But what were wisdom and knowledge these days?
Knowledge had deteriorated into mere detection and diagnosis,
and you could train a giant pouched African rat for that.
In three weeks, a giant pouched rat
from that once intriguing continent
could be taught to sniff out landmines as well
as most drugs and weapons.
They could detect cancer in the unsuspecting too.
But their trainers didn't want to burn them out
with the boredom that too much success brings.
In any case, everyone had cancer these days,
cancer, Parkinson's, leukemia, tumors, the sugar.
Even a rat needs a challenge.
Owlet Jeffrey, Enoch, longed for the pickup
another cookie would bring, but he was an owlet
of habit and structure.
There would be no second cookie.
He gave his eyes one more nostalgic swipe,
left his chambers, and descended to the courtroom
to confront all those who had fallen under his jurisdiction.
It's a serious matter to allow someone
to wander among the living after their death
or before they were born or, as she had argued,
before their birth was fully accomplished.
Is that what she'd said?
Yes, and he had said that many feel that way about themselves
without actually being aware of it, by which he meant that they
become human without knowing the first thing about it,
the requirements and such.
That is, they suspected they were
meant to be more or different but fumbled about
in the smoky light of half-realized lives instead.
That is, he never should have sent her away.
What if something befell her and she didn't come back?
Maybe he should go out and get her.
But that would be unprecedented too.
That would be the eighth day, all right, the one
that St. Augustine refers to after the seven
days of creation, the one with no evening in it.
Your Honor, some supplicant was murmuring.
I accept the unethical acts of my past.
I tell you this sincerely and I wish, therefore,
to alter their meaning.
Excuse me, Enoch said.
Alter their meaning?
That's a good one.
What's your name?
Castor.
As in Castor and Pollux?
Where's your brother?
I don't know no Pollux.
I'm not responsible for no Pollux,
but I accept the unethical acts of my past
and wish to be allowed to alter their meaning.
You don't want forgiveness then?
I don't believe there's any benefit to that.
Is there?
What's it feel like accepting your past?
I feel like a new man.
That's the dumbest thing I've heard yet, Enoch said.
Go over there, no there, no, to the left.
Lie down over there.
This court is in perpetual session.
A woman was next, looking close to fainting.
Don't be frightened, he said, in what he hoped
was not too unctous a fashion.
I planted butterfly bushes once, but they, the butterflies,
didn't come.
Yes, well, I've heard that employees
in these mega gardening centers don't know
what they're talking about.
I even thought of suing them, not the butterflies, of course.
She faded away and was replaced by a man who
said in a loud, aggrieved voice, I want to work with survivors.
I want to dig survivors out of the rubble
and build privies and shelters.
Fuck the Earth.
The Earth is worthless.
Long live the Earth, who has freed us from the obligation
to save her.
You're not going to catch me serving the Earth,
as if she were some sort of goddess.
I want to serve my own kind.
Remove him at once, Enoch said.
As an afterthought, he said, give him some privies to build.
I guess I'm next.
Am I next, a young woman asked.
OK, then, my mother kept rabbits.
She collected them.
It was so embarrassing.
People called her the bunny lady.
Otherwise, she was normal.
We had a little shed in the yard, which
should have been my playhouse, but it was always
full of rabbits.
After I went to Yale, she was arrested
for having so many rabbits, and I had to post bond.
She was told not to go within 100 yards of a rabbit,
but she violated her probation, and I was asked to post bond
again, but I didn't.
I didn't post bond.
Now you want to know if you should have laughed or cried,
Enoch said.
That's right.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the time.
What did you do?
Neither, I went out and bought shoes.
[LAUGHTER]
Then that was the wrong response, I guess, Enoch said.
Is your mother still alive?
Dead and buried now.
They won't have to worry that she'll
get within 100 yards of a rabbit anymore.
Mmm, Enoch said, have you heard the old belief
that when you shiver for no reason
it's because a rabbit is running over your grave?
The woman laughed in a projectile fashion
before being led away.
So it went, 100s in an hour under his purview.
And the things they tried to sneak past him.
One old soul had arrived clutching a bottle of vinegar,
the old fashioned kind with that cobwebby stuff floating around
in the bottom of it.
They brought sandwiches, pills, an alebrije with a broken tail.
Some had pieces of plastic that once had given them
anything they wanted that they still clutched like amulets.
Some were surprisingly argumentative
given the circumstances.
One fellow strode before the bench and announced,
you ain't god.
Enoch sighed, I am not.
He said, look at these pictures.
Do you see the diff...
--Because I believe in god, and the god I believe in will bring
me back like I've always been, same way of doing things,
same way of figuring...
The same apprehensions, Enoch said, preferring formal usage.
I'm not apprehensive about nothing
because god will bring me back, and it will be me,
not just someone like me.
But I won't need to be concerned about what I've done
or worry I should have done something different.
You regret nothing?
Wouldn't question god, short stack.
Jeffrey regarded him sourly.
Did anyone in your family cut that tunnel through Wawona?
To what?
Wawona, the giant sequoia.
Oh, yeah, that tree older than Jesus
that you could drive your car through for fun.
One of my father's brothers did that, real outdoorsy type,
was able to sign on as part of the crew.
My mother had a photograph of him,
and it was in the kitchen for a while.
Nobody ever called it Wawona though.
He looked somewhat stupefied and bored, then impatient.
Then he grabbed his chest and said something that
sounded very much like glah!
Oh, my, Jeffrey said.
I think I'm having a heart attack.
Ow, it hurts like a motherfucker.
Ow!
He sank to the floor and disappeared.
Jeffrey rose and peered over the great walled desk
but could see no sign of him.
He had simply disappeared.
Jeffrey hadn't even given a ruling,
though it certainly would have been dismissal
with extreme prejudice.
It would have been well nigh impossible for the ruling
to be arbitrary, capricious, contrary
to law, an abuse of discretion and not
supported by objective evidence in this case.
Maybe the more obvious ones he should pick up the pace a bit.
He hoped he wasn't losing focus.
He felt, at times, almost bodiless, just
a massive 10-year-old brain presiding.
Or a blossom tossed about by the wind.
The wind, how the wind had howled in that asylum
by that aphotic lake.
It was ceaseless.
No wonder if they'd all been nuts.
You'd think his mother would have been more careful
about their itinerary.
He was a product of erratic parenting.
When he was six, she told him that when her time came,
as she phrased it, she wanted to be cremated
and her ashes stored in a martini shaker.
[LAUGHTER]
He had said that he found the request exceedingly frivolous,
and he would never honor it.
She had accused him of having no sense of style,
but the matter had not come up again.
His mother, he hadn't thought of her in what seemed centuries.
It was a peculiar day.
He raised his arms, making the robes crepitate in that way
that he liked, and thought again of that cloud land
on the lake where elders and radical sickies paired,
prepared.
He didn't know exactly how they'd gotten there,
but he imagined the strange resolve descending upon them
like a cloud, was the best he could ever come up
with, for he did not have much of an imagination,
he'd be the first to admit, a fact he
wasn't about to lose any sleep over, he who never slept.
Maybe they saw death studying them
in that weary, heavy little way death affected.
And they realized they didn't want to donate their organs
or give their last nickel to that holier-than-thou kid
tricycling for charity.
They felt bad, and they would never feel good again,
bad and mad.
They didn't want to be reliable anymore
or well-adjusted or accommodating or moderate
or accepting.
And then the cloud, which was not
a cloud in the literal atmospheric sense,
cloud, after all, arising from the Greek, buttock,
for heaven's sakes, indicated to them something
along the lines of what do you have to lose,
for society was still counting on them heavily
to think they had something still to lose.
He sympathized with the old delinquents, actually.
And then she showed up and asked what had become of them.
It was depressing.
He was still peering into the space into which the fellow had
vanished.
Had he really called him short stack?
That was perturbing.
He raised his eyes and regarded his courtroom.
The procedural un-intelligibility of it all.
Well, he'd wanted this.
He wanted it very much.
He called for a recess and retreated to his chambers.
The cases would be piling up, he was well aware.
Men and women, even children, for he'd
noticed one playing with a little truck,
rolling it back and forth, would be creeping up the stairs
in fetid flood if he continued to take these breaks.
It'd smother him if they detect the slightest
whiff of uncertainty or avoidance on his part.
They'd roll right over him.
Humanity could be quite overwhelming.
Who was he kidding?
Humanity was overwhelming.
Goodness, how we would like to leave and seek her.
He would pass through the court like a williwaw,
leaving petitioners flailing to remain upright,
their garments bloating out as though harboring the drowned.
Someone would say, in deep space there's winds that
blow a million miles an hour.
And this was like that.
And someone else would be sure to contest it.
A wind like that's unmeasurable.
Someone's pulling your leg.
There wasn't much he couldn't predict his court rats saying,
querulous and opinionated as they were to the end.
She'd been right here before him, and he had dismissed her.
He had invited her back, yes.
But would she be able to return?
He couldn't leave to go to her.
His own masters wouldn't let him,
and they'd been good to him, kept him
as a kid, allowed him all the bells and whistles,
the robes, and polished rails, allowed him
ultimate authority over all who had
lived so carelessly and onerously
on the Earth with such savagely entitled abandon.
And even those who hadn't.
They had allowed him his incommutable sentences.
The only thing they hadn't allowed
was the bringing back of his Tata, his grandfather,
whose murder at the hands of his simple-minded
devil of a father, Jeffrey still had difficulty comprehending.
The murder of the father, heinous, heinous, only murder
of the mother being more so.
A collective action proceeding pretty much without
cease if you addressed it in the lyrical entirety of mother
planet.
Oh, he couldn't wait until she returned.
Don't wait then, his grandfather would
tease when Jeffrey would squeak his enthusiasm
for some promised upcoming outing, a trial lawyers'
convention, tea with a retired federal judge,
a visit to juvenile court.
The movies frightened him somewhat, actually.
Then don't wait, his grandfather would say
solemnly, do anything but wait.
And Jeffrey would never fail to find this amusing.
His grandfather was known for his dry-as-a-desert wit.
How he loved him.
Ashes now, no more than the ashes
of a book that had been poked about in the fire
to provoke a moment's warmth.
He didn't understand how he could
have gone living after his grandfather died,
after he knew his grandfather had died.
For there had been seven days when he had not known.
And when he had missed him, as one merely
misses the temporary absence of a living loved one,
there were no phones in the queer place
where his mother had deposited them for a holiday.
That was the explanation she had given
for the disturbing silence from home.
When he'd whined and inquired further,
his mother told him that Thomas Edison
had failed in his attempt to build a phone that he
anticipated would bear messages back and forth across the veil.
And if Thomas Edison had failed, wasting years of his life
and becoming half doddy by the quest,
it was unlikely that such an apparatus could
be found even where they were.
Jeffrey hadn't known what she was talking about.
His grandfather had never spoken of Thomas Edison.
Thus, he could not be of the bar and was a little consequence.
His mother's pronouncements had become more and more irregular
and incomplete due to her drinking.
Seven days and not a sign, though he tortured himself
frequently with the thought that his grandfather had appeared
to him during that time, on the shore of that disorienting
lake, that he had, in fact, appeared
as the small and helpless fish he'd caught.
Jeffrey took a deep and shaky breath.
He had hyperventilated before when considering this.
He had almost lost it, actually, when
that very person, the interesting case,
had brought up the soul like the fish in the sea,
like the sea in the fish business.
He shoved his hands in his mouth and chewed.
Oh, that dreadful lake, that awful place
with its drifting shades.
How would his mother even come across it?
It must have been by accident.
But she behaved as though it had been their destination
all the while.
We want your nicest room, she demanded at the desk.
But of course, there were no nicest rooms.
Outside was even worse.
There was a warped ping pong table lacking a net,
a structure with baffling signage towards which
the other guests had streamed with disturbing ceremony,
and the not very clean swimming pool.
What if he'd wanted swimming lessons?
What if he'd wanted his mother to place
her hand beneath his fragile spine
and support him in clean, cool waters?
Beneath his vulnerable body would be a hand.
In the palm of this hand, would be
the point of secure, serene balance
upon which he would float.
What if he'd wanted that?
He did not know how to swim to this day.
And nobody seemed to eat there.
The place certainly took away his appetite,
though in the beginning, he'd missed his morning wheat germ.
His mother had packed no bags for them.
He didn't even have his Black's Law Dictionary
or his dental floss.
And then they left as abruptly as they had arrived.
And it was that night that his mother,
in the bubble of their speeding car,
had told him that his Tata, his only advocate and ally,
was dead.
He had been sing-songing to himself having recently
discovered the struggling field of animal law.
Animal law, animal use law prohibits any necropsy
or surgical procedure on an animal within the sight
of other animals of the same species, he warbled,
which was interesting, really interesting in that it
acknowledged the distress and empathy of animals over...
What?
he said.
I believe the disagreement between your father
and your grandfather was over procedural rather than
substantive matters, she said, making every effort
to present it in a way he'd appreciate.
When he said nothing, she said, your father will probably
get off on the self defense gambit,
for your grandfather did brandish a stone paperweight
at him.
Which stone paperweight, Jeffrey said.
What a funny question.
It's practically inappropriate.
He has many stone paperweights.
Any rock can become metamorphic, his Tata had told him.
Or perhaps he had.
Take it back, what you said.
Don't be difficult, Jeffrey.
There's nothing mother can do about it.
Now you know what's what, and we have
to get back to what's what.
He was silent.
Jeffrey, his mother said, don't play with your thoughts.
He had seized the wheel then.
His mother screamed and, struggling
with him quite naturally, lost control of the vehicle, which
rolled and rolled as though it were a perfect orb designed
to roll forever before it cast him out to stand alone
on a dark road.
Jeffrey's head was pounding.
He must be dehydrated.
He poured water from the carafe into a shallow cup
and studied it for a moment before gulping it down.
The Greeks had their oracles of the dead,
which appeared as visions in pools or certain pans of water.
He'd never been granted such a vision, not as much as a peek.
He had to be content with the constant revelation
that most of what passed as the substance of life was nothing.
For a while, as a child, he had harbored the notion
that when someone you were fond of
died it was yourself who disappeared.
It began with his grandmother.
She must have been baffled when everyone and everything she'd
surrounded herself with vanished,
her brilliant husband, her frivolous son
and his awful wife, right down to her wispy grandson,
her pet koi, and the wedding ring
she was always taking off and misplacing
when she washed the dishes.
It was yourself who disappeared, the one
who was supposed to be left.
And you were never that person again.
He could hear the crowd below him multiplying.
Really, he was falling further and further behind.
Sometimes he tried to perceive them
all as sacred clowns holding nothing sacred.
They point the way to the sacred.
But he could not do this often, practically never.
The sound was quite extraordinary.
He remembered the description in old book
of a phenomenon long since vanished
from the world, the sound of birds,
of migrating wings passing through the darkness
in countless harmonies with a velvety rustle long drawn out.
This was not that.
It was a rumbling, metallic, demanding cacophony,
murderously sociable, pathologically multiplying.
He rushed down to them in a rage and did a week's work
in an hour before retreating once more to his chambers
feeling a bit off his game.
His Tata always allowed his opponent
to state his whole case, making sure the other had nothing more
to say before the implacable rejoinder came.
His Tata was a man made of dynamite.
He spoke and suddenly everything was inverted,
all previous certainties were made questionable,
everything reasonably argued preposterous.
His irrefutable triumph was thrilling to observe,
a magic show of pure confoundment.
He allowed himself a moment of wild adoration for the old man,
then several more, resigning his father to ever deeper hells.
But Jeffrey was not his grandfather, alas.
And the interesting case was not an opponent.
His defined opposite, perhaps, his challenge and check.
She saw the tears in things, which he did not.
He saw only the injustice.
Every person under his purview considered themselves
unique as snowflakes.
But in the aggregate, they were a blizzard,
a whiteout of swirling expectation and denial.
Yet still, the rumor in his courtroom
was that, if his opinion was favorable,
one should have no fear.
If unfavorable, no hope, which was
pretty darn flattering to overhear, praise practically.
The truth of the matter was his judgments scarcely varied.
Scarcely do we inhume the wreckage of our lives
than we dig it up again.
That's why we keep on, keep on, and keep on, never progressing
except in the grossest and most mundane fashion,
he would sometimes confide.
And then she appears and says she
wants to take up the work of living for the first time.
Art of living, she'd actually said, which he corrected.
She was thinking without the right words.
She should just go to the next step of thinking
with no words at all.
He was able to do this on occasion,
though the moment always caught him unaware.
And he found it wonderfully refreshing and instructive.
That was no way to explain it, of course.
His masters had brought them together,
but were they her masters as well?
If they were, he thought somewhat anxiously,
they might be requiring more of her than of him.
Sometimes he even wondered if they were following his labors
anymore, if the minute distinctions he didn't make
were of any concern to them.
What if she were the world's last night?
Isn't that the great theological question?
What if this present were the world's last night, or one
of the great questions anyway.
Those who cared had so many of them.
But the governing authority, of which his court was very much
not a part, was taking increasing measures
to eliminate night.
Instinctively, if not metaphysically,
they sensed the final reckoning and determined,
being sovereign and all, that they would not be out-reckoned.
Unnatural light would suffuse the all as soon
as natural light began to wane.
That was the assurance and the goal.
Night generated unhealthy thinking anyway,
and they found that people had no trouble sleeping
without darkness.
They'd be sleeping anyway in the most profound sense.
They were always sleeping.
Even she slept, he suspected, for she couldn't remember
her death, which had been given to her for a purpose,
after all.
She was a human child.
She wasn't born in a buttercup.
She had endured the brief and starving banality of one
of those last childhoods before eluding the great attrition
and corresponding resolve of the survivors,
before being cosseted by brooding over
the hill eco-nuts whose concern for the tusked
and shelled, the finned and winged,
made them the shame of their species
and more outcasts than the Azazel goat of the Hebrews.
And now she was here, the last of her kind
or the first, the difficulties being the same,
having realized her situation only
when she became alone, when her familiars had vanished
with a vanquished world.
But what was the point of coming back from the dead
if only to visit the dead?
He tidied the papers on his desk once more.
There were no dogs in the Kafka story.
He wondered what else he'd been wrong about.
He resumed staring into the dish of water.
There was a small insect there, a spider, imperceptibly
translucent, floating not on the water
but seemingly on an invisible film above it.
It puzzled him, for the sterility of his chambers
he had never questioned.
It puzzled him, for he could not ever remember
seeing a spider before.
Which surely was impossible.
The spider brings the web out of herself and then lives in it.
Remarkable."
Thank you.
Thanks.
[APPLAUSE]
Thanks so much.