Preface vii 



We therefore open the book without zest and 

 without unreasonable expectations ; and forth- 

 with, from between the open leaves, there rises 

 and unfolds itself, without hesitation, without 

 interruption and almost without remission to 

 the end of the four thousand pages, the most 

 extraordinary of tragic fairy plays that it is 

 possible for the human imagination, not to 

 create or to conceive, but to admit and to 

 acclimatize within itself. 



Indeed, there is no question here of the 

 human imagination. The insect does not belong*^ 

 to our world. The other animals, the plants 

 even, notwithstanding their dumb life and the 

 great secrets which they cherish, do not seem 

 wholly foreign to us. In spite of all, we feel 

 a certain earthly brotherhood in them. They 

 often surprise and amaze our intelligence, but 

 do not utterly upset it. There is something, 

 on the other hand, about the insect that does 

 not seem to belong to the habits, the ethics, the 

 psychology of our globe. One would be inclined 

 to say that the insect comes from another planet, 

 more monstrous, more energetic, more insane, 

 more atrocious, more infernal than our own. 



