The Life of the Fly 



family in July, or in August at latest. Every 

 morning, at nine o'clock, when the heat begins 

 to be unendurable and when, to use Favier's^ 

 expression, an extra log is flung on the bonfire 

 of the sun, I take the field, prepared to come 

 back with my head aching from the glare, pro- 

 vided that I bring home the solution of my 

 puzzle. A man must have the devil in him to 

 leave the shade at this time of the year. And 

 what for, pray? To write the story of a Fly! 

 The greater the heat, the better my chance 

 of success. What causes me to suffer torture 

 fills the insect with delight; what prostrates 

 me braces the Fly. Come along ! 



The road shimmers like a sheet of molten 

 steel. From the dusty and melancholy olive- 

 trees rises a mighty, throbbing hum, a great 

 andante whose executants have the whole 

 sweep of woods for their orchestra. Tis the 

 concert of the Cicadae, whose bellies sway and 

 rustle with increasing frenzy as the tempera- 

 ture rises. The strident scrapings of the Cicada 

 of the Ash, the Carcan of the district, lend 

 their rhythm to the one-note symphony of the 

 Common Cicada. This is the moment: come 

 along! And, for five or six weeks, oftenest 



'An ex-soldier, recurring in many of the essays, the 

 author's gardener and factotum. — Translator's Note. 



94 



