I want the thing itself. The reality of a work of art is no symbol, no imitation either of outer or inner Nature. It doesn’t imitate the pulse of the heart. It is its own self; it has its own pulse. Otherwise everything would be an imitation in relation to something. Perhaps that’s so: This something is God. Only I don’t like the word imitation.
“
The Lord was in a den with a pack of wolves.
“You really are so intelligent,” the Lord said, “and have such glorious eyes. Why do you think you’re hounded so? It’s like they want to exterminate you, it’s awful.”
“Well, sometimes it’s the calves and the cows,” the wolves said.
“Oh those maddening cows,” the Lord said. “I have a suggestion. What if I caused you not to have a taste for them anymore?”
“It wouldn’t matter. Then it would be the deer or the elk. Have you seen the bumper stickers on the hunters’ trucks—DID A WOLF GET YOUR ELK?”
“I guess I missed that,” the Lord said.
“Sentiment is very much against us down here,” the wolves said.
“I’m so awfully sorry,” the Lord said.
“Thank you for inviting us to participate in your plan anyway,” the wolves said politely.
The Lord did not want to appear addled, but what was the plan his sons were referring to exactly?
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Joy Williams | “Fathers and Sons”