Читать книгу Attitudes - W. Ross Winterowd - Страница 14

Tropical Thoughts

Depending on one’s mood, the tropics are either fetid or fecund. The two images, both pervasively green, are, on the one hand, of mildew, scum on stagnant water, ophidians waiting flickeringly for prey, vines strangling nobler growth, the stridently green cries of extravagant birds with grotesquely large bills, Roquefort striations on the milky pallidness of an orchid, a mossy crocodile lying inertly below the surface, only its unblinking luminously green eyes and its snout visible, impenetrable walls of smothering greenness—or, on the other hand, verdure: growth superabundant and languid plenty, the brilliance of a cockatoo uplifting its emerald comb, ripe fruits hanging golden among the leaves, a monkey chattering as it flashes from branch to branch, the ogle-eyed lemur looking through us into its future.

It occurs to me that some inhabit, slither about in, the fetidly figurative while others dwell, thrive, in fecundity. Or, to put the matter another way, some stagnate in greenness while others flourish in verdure.

But I’m not about to name names, not I, no sir, for I’m not a backbiting, wrongheaded bigot.