When I unwrapped the moth from its funeral shroud, it was the same startlingly lovely creature as on the day I had entombed it. Everything about it seemed beautiful and perfect, and so utterly unchanged.

Together we look like our mother. Her same eyes, her same mouth, open in surprise to see, at last, her long-cherished wish.

Once he inserted a bodkin – a long needle of the sort used for sewing leather – into his eye socket and rubbed it around ‘betwixt my eye and the bone4 as near to [the] backside of my eye as I could’ just to see what would happen. What happened, miraculously, was nothing – at least, nothing lasting.

Written By Bill Bryson

About us

Featured posts

Featured Topics

Quick Links