"Bring my breakfast, and a book to pass the time," I said to someone in a uniform. I ate porridge, cottage cheese with honey, and quails' eggs, while reading Animal Intelligence, a book of observations of the natural world.
The author wrote, "I found a waspbusied in lifting from the ground a large fly which it had apparently killed. It had scarcely raised its prey a few inches above the ground when the wind caught the wings of the dead fly and they began to act like a sail.
"The wasp was blown in the direction of the wind, whereupon it let itself fall to the ground. With eager industry it pulled off with its teeth the fly's wings which hindered it in its object.
"When this was quite done it seized the fly and flew off with it untroubled on its journey through the air."
Good.
TUESDAY
Hundreds of thousands in Mariupol are without food, water, or medical care. Good. "Bring my lunch, and another book about the exact sufferings of something insignificant at the hands of a superior force," I said to someone who may have had a face.
I ate hot-smoked sturgeon with lemon and butter, and read The Fly, a short story by Katherine Mansfield. The author wrote, "The boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad inkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. Help! Help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpot were wet and slippery; it fell back again and began to swim.
"The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch that oozed round it. "Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling its small, sodden body up, it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings….He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting-paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great heavy blot."
Good.
"I feel like a Double Quarter Pounder with fries. Drive me to McDonald's," I commanded.
Photo / AP
WEDNESDAY
Sanctions are having a severe impact on Russia's economy, and its people.
Neither good or bad.
"I feel like a Double Quarter Pounder with fries. Drive me to McDonald's," I commanded.
The room went silent.
THURSDAY
"Here is your Double Quarter Pounder with fries, Mr President," said someone in a suit. "It's cold," I said.
There was a gunshot, and then the room went silent.
FRIDAY
A Russian airstrike on a maternity hospital kills three people.
Very good.
"Bring my dinner, and that enjoyable short story about a man having a bit of fun," I said to someone who was mopping a stain off the carpet.
I ate fish soup, smoked eel, and pancakes with strawberries, and continued reading "The Fly".
The author wrote, "There was something timid and weak about the fly's efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the inkpot. It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body; the front legs were not to be seen…The fly was dead."
Excellent.
But then the author wrote, "The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it into the waste-paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he felt positively frightened."
