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392 pages, Hardcover
First published October 18, 2005



...though wounded, though weakened by loss of blood, and consequently more anxious than ever to enjoy there, sheltered from the wind, the last warmth from the sun, at a certain moment it had thought that it was wise still, immediately, to “move on”. The long strip of land, over there, thickly covered with vegetation, more or less the same color as its feathers, and mostly tall enough to allow it to walk there without being seen, perhaps represented what best suited the bird’s needs. To hide in there, for the present, waiting for night, which was now near; and afterwards, afterwards it would see what could be done.
[…]
It went farther and farther away, painfully dragging its shattered wing after it; and he thought he could read in its narrow, obstinate little neck all this reasoning. But how mistaken it was, he suddenly said to himself, it fooled itself to such a degree (the strip of land was all right, it would get there; but with all the blood it was still shedding, the dog, soon unleashed to search for it, wouldn’t have the slightest difficulty in flushing it), it was wrong to such a degree, obviously, poor stupid animal, that if he hadn’t felt that shooting at it would seem, to him, shooting in a sense at himself, he would have fired at once. Then, at least, it would be all over. — (and then I bought The Novel of Ferrara)

