292
AN ANGLER AT LARGE
will come we know very well. Like these same trout, we realise a danger, continually imminent, that lurks in those things we love. But loving them, feeling the need of them, we pursue them, some carefully, others recklessly. This danger that we call death (who knows what that Angler calls it?) may be hidden anywhere—in an oyster, a hunter, a footstep cut in eternal ice, a glass of ruby wine, an open window. Sooner or later, the Angler will get us. But we avoid his snares as long as we can. And while our lips proclaim ourselves the Lords of Creation, our hearts tremble at the presumption. For we know that it is a lie.
So I think that I shall give up
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Excuse me. A large fish has just risen under the willow. And here come the duns.
