C H A P T E R 7
WISDOM EXERCISE NOTEBOOKS
In Pappachi’s study, mounted butterɻies and moths had
disintegrated into small heaps of iridescent dust that powdered the
bottom of their glass display cases, leaving the pins that had
impaled them naked. Cruel. The room was rank with fungus and
disuse. An old neon-green hula hoop hung from a wooden peg on
the wall, a huge saint’s discarded halo. A column of shining black
ants walked across a windowsill, their bottoms tilted upwards, like a
line of mincing chorus girls in a Busby Berkeley musical. Silhouetted
against the sun. Buʃed and beautiful.