University of Northern Iowa
On Hunting Author(s): Eric Zencey Source: The North American Review, Vol. 272, No. 2 (Jun., 1987), pp. 59-63 Published by: University of Northern Iowa Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25124850 . Accessed: 25/10/2013 20:07
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THE PRESENT CASE
On Hunting ERIC ZENCEY
A man walks the shoulder of state route 14, a two-lane road that winds north through the hills of Vermont from Barre ("Granite Capital of the
World") toward Hardwick ("the Gateway to the Northeast King dom"). The man wears a red wool
jacket with a black plaid design, a
bright orange peakless cap, and green wool trousers. He is portly. Firmly bound to one shoulder is the leather
strap of a rifle, and its barrel protrudes upward, a long thin snorkel bobbing above his head. It gives him a vaguely amphibious air. As I pass him at
something near the regulation fifty miles an hour, I can see that this hike is straining him; his cheeks are red and he seems, in the short glance I have of him, to be out of breath.
There is something anomalous about a man walking along a road with a rifle. To those with urban reflexes, the sight is likely to quicken the heart and sharpen the senses, for in a world of pavement and glass a man with a
gun can mean only one thing: danger. Even when there is no danger?even in open country where this sight is not unusual, even when the rifle is
strapped to a red wool shoulder and
pointed innocuously at the sky? there is something disconcerting about the vision. The man is a
hunter. His presence here along the
road means he isn't hunting: he is out of place, away from the activity that defines him.
Hunting is an uncivil activity. It occurs outside the boundaries of civic
organization, in a landscape whose distance from the city cannot be
measured solely by the space that lies between the hunter and the nearest
high-rise apartment. The city de
pends on
agriculture?the farmer's
fields are a necessary antipode to the
apartment building. In its essence,
hunting is a stranger to both farm and
city, a stranger to the form of order that is represented in the plow and in structural steel. While agricultural societies have domesticated the
hunt, turning it variously into a for mal and mannered social occasion, or a democratic, somewhat plebian escape from routine, true hunters?
those whose lives depend on success in the hunt?survive today only
on
lands that no farming tribe has ever
contested, lands in which the urban dominion that wraps the globe takes the form of a thin and tenuous juris diction over wilderness. For most of
recorded history there has been ani
mosity between farming peoples and
hunting peoples. The farmers have tended to see the animosity as being rooted in the pure uncivilized savage ry of the hunter; to the hunter, the
problem was always a basic incom
patibility of religious vision, manifest in the farmer's penchant for
owner
ship. An appreciation of the hunter's
point of view in this, the conflict that led to the first and longest of all world
wars, is a relatively recent develop ment in western culture. One does
not need to have read Hegel in order to see that the appreciation is neither accidental nor entirely innocent of self-interest. As agriculture has ex
panded its dominion, reaching the fullest development of its potential, its
shortcomings, too, have become
more apparent, a state of affairs that
seduces us into romanticizing the
simplicity and nobility of the hunter and gatherer. But romanticism is
meager reparation for four thousand
years of denigration; desire rarely does justice to its object. Because romanticism depends upon the form of memory (and the sense of loss) that comes from seeing time as an infinite series of unique moments, it does not
escape history?and history is what is at issue here. In this conflict, history
was not only written by the winners, it was invented by them, and its impo sition on the world was a crucial com
ponent of the injustice that agri culturalists visited on hunters. Today our romanticism of the paleo-hunter
only serves to affirm the complete ness of the farmer's victory: the
secure victor can afford to be indul
gent, even generous. And yet there is a paradox here, one that Hegel might have appreciated. Geologic time
(which, with its apparently infinite
stretches, represents the fullest
development of the historical con sciousness invented by the farmer) transcends the mindset that marks off
days and hours and minutes, and in so
doing offers a near replication of the hunter's immersion in cyclic and sacred time. And, to one mindful of
geologic time, agriculture and the urban life it supports are recent ex
periments in social organization, experiments that may yet demon strate the wisdom of peoples we once viewed as savage.
No one would mistake my portly hunter for a savage. And he is, in all
likelihood, only a commuter to the
territory of the hunt. But he has been in the woods. Now, as he walks the
road, he is out. Whenever an alien
culture intrudes upon ours, there is
incongruity, even when the intrusion is as mild as this, a part-time hunter
walking the graveled shoulder of a stretch of two-lane blacktop, far from the centers of the urban culture that
produced the road.
Hunters are men, mostly. (Of the 17.5 million Americans who, accord
ing to a census by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, hunted in 1980,
only eight percent were women.) And while they pursue a variety of
game, it is the pursuit of the white tail deer, odocoileus virginianus, that
defines them in the public mind. Deer are the largest animal taken in
any great number in this country? they are ranked as big game, almost in spite of the fact that they are plen tiful?and we as a culture are drawn
to the symbolism of the large. Hunt ers are too; for many, hunting means
deer hunting, and deer season is the event toward which the year moves.
Hunting is not a spectator sport: there are no vicarious thrills in hunt
ing, unless they are found in the emo
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tions the hunter feels when his quarry escapes?or is killed. No one pays
money to watch another person hunt, and the few attempts at presenting
hunting on television have been dis mal failures, scarcely drawing audi ences even on slow and rainy
Sundays. This is not just because the
presence of a camera and crew dis
torts the activity, so that the hunting that can be shown is not the hunting that is. Hunting is a private, if not
solitary, act. We see hunters only when they have ceased hunting, only when they emerge from the woods.
In the towns of Vermont during deer season they congregate in the parking lots of general stores, eating their lunches while the rest of the world
commutes to work, drinking coffee or
liquor against the chill of sitting motionless in the autumn woods.
They gather to talk, to compare, to
commiserate, to mock, and above all
to tell stories. In the group that stands this morning outside my town's gen eral store, there is one man in particu lar whose hands gesture easily,
moving fluidly on forearms that are
pinioned against the hood of his pick up truck, which the group uses as a
coffee table. Now and again he
thumps the dusty hood of the truck for emphasis, shaking the styrofoam cups, threatening the
roast beef sand
wich that lies close at hand atop its
plastic wrap. They are a raucous and.
burly lot, and were it not for the fact that I recognize my friend Frank
among them, and can greet him, I
might feel ill at ease as I pass them on
my way into the store.
It is a discomfort others share.
Every autumn, during deer season,
many of my friends and acquaint ances become indignant. For some,
the indignity has to do with loss of services: a large proportion of the
native population here hunts, so much so that if it weren't for the urban refugees (the vast majority of
whom are members of the profes
sions), the economy would come to a
grinding halt. As it is, commerce suf
fers, and everyone comes to under
stand that certain things are impossi ble during deer season: you cannot
get your car repaired today, you can
not get that extra cord of wood deliv ered before it snows, you cannot get a
plumber or an electrician or a fuel-oil
delivery this week. But others have a resentment whose origin lies deeper than mere inconvenience. For two
weeks the hunters own the woods
and are an unavoidable presence in
much of the public space of Ver mont?not only in the general stores
but also on the backroads, where they are found walking, and where their vehicles are parked in the high weeds or tucked into small clearings and old
logging roads, a litter of metal that marks the passage of predators, like so much mechanical scat. It is not hard to see hunters as an invading force. Many people resent the feeling of insecurity this creates, and some
among them would like to prevent these men with guns from killing "defenseless" animals. But in this belief they have transposed their
knowledge of domesticated animals onto the wild: deer have not been
selectively bred for stupidity. As wild herbivores their primary defenses are stealth and flight, strategies so suc cessful that fewer than ten percent of the hunters here take home any
meat.
In their attitudes toward hunting, anti-hunters reflect the conventions
of our culture and their class. Most of them have grown up with a Walt Dis
ney version of nature: in the moral
universe of our culture's folk tales
and children's stories, herbivores are
always innocent, and carnivores dan
gerous or downright evil. It could
hardly be otherwise for an agricul tural tribe. Most anti-hunters come
from (or aspire to mimic) the great urban middle class, and part of their
disquiet comes from the sheer un
civilized earthiness of hunting. They bring with them an image of nature as a
tranquil, pastoral scene?much like
a city park,
or the close-cropped pas tures of a dairy farm?and they have
been taught that it isn't quite polite to dwell on bodily functions. Hunting reminds them a bit too directly that humans are animals, that animals eat
other animals, that gore, blood,
excrement, and death are natural.
Once, at a dinner party, the vice
president of a local college told me that it is immoral for a person to hunt if that person can afford to buy meat.
This is a popular belief; the middle
class, it seems, would forgive the
poverty-stricken?for whom a hun
dred pounds of venison can represent
a sizable addition to a food budget? but would enforce their morals on
their own. No doubt the vice presi dent thought he was being under
standing of the role that hunting plays in the traditional economy of a rural area. I can afford meat; I hunt. I tried to explain myself to him.
There is, of course, an obvious
hypocrisy involved in the belief that
killing is immoral if you can afford to
pay someone to do it for you. Most
people are properly taken aback when I point this out to them. More difficult to answer are the committed
vegetarians, who avoid meat for
health or moral reasons. Sometimes
we find common ground: I too am
wary of chemical additives, I too dis like the indignities that are perpe trated on animals by factory farming.
How much more noble, I suggest to
them, to pursue and eventually eat an
animal that has not been denied its
freedom, has not been genetically manipulated or chemically bloated, but is instead wholly other, occupy ing an ecological niche that its an
cestors, and not we humans, have
defined. I try to explain how it is that I believe the world would be a better
place if more people hunted?if more of our food calories came from hunt
ing and gathering. Anthropology sup ports me: hunting and gathering tribes are less bloodthirsty, in regard to their own species, than agricultural tribes. Thermodynamics supports
me: industrial agriculture is ex
tremely wasteful of energy, using on the average twenty calories for every
calorie of food delivered to the con sumer. Natural and organic farming techniques are better?they at least
have a positive caloric income?but
the most efficient food delivery sys tems that humans have ever known
have been those of hunters and
gatherers. I talk about the mind-set
of control that begins with agricul ture?control that begins with the
plow (an act of violence against the
earth), continues through property relations and ownership of land (an act of violence against the integrity of
ecosystems), through the genetic ma
nipulation of domesticated creatures so that they might better suit our
ends, and culminates in the most
depraved treatment of humans by humans that we can imagine. Only
an
agricultural tribe, I have been heard to say, could invent concentration
camps and practice genocide; hunt ers and gatherers have no notion of
"varmints," no tendency to define
other creatures as pests, no animus
that leads them to see total annihila tion of another species or race or way of life as a solution.
60 June 1987
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Sometimes this argument makes an impression. But still there is the
problem of death. Many moral vege tarians have chosen their stance pre
cisely because they want to avoid
causing death; hunting too obviously contradicts the firmament upon
which their very selves depend. I have to confess to being impa
tient with this sort of moral vege tarianism. I think that it, like
anorexia, is self-denial in the service
of an acculturated pathology. But unlike anorexia, it seems to have only one cause: an all-too-human hubris
that leads the vegetarian to think that
antiseptic innocence is possible in this world. In turning away from the
ecological niche that shaped our an cestors even as they claimed it, by renouncing the eons of evolution
as
carnivores that have made us what we
are?conscious, self-conscious, erect
hominids with binocular vision,
opposable thumbs, an ability to sym bolize and communicate our experi ence through language, and a deeply seated faith that the events of our lives have a coherence that contains
meaning?the moral vegetarian is
trying to elect him or herself out of context. In this, the vegetarian
exemplifies the source of humanity's ecological problems no less than the
engineer, whose disregard for con
text is founded not on an optimistic faith in the possibility of transcen dence but on a faith in trouble
shooting, a faith that the principles of nature can be made irrelevant
through the exercise of more control and more power. But we humans are
inescapably of nature. Tragedy and sin have origins in our existence
deeper than mere ignorance, and
there is arrogance in believing other wise.
"Let me show you what I got in the mail today." I follow Frank into the
living room of the old farm house he rents. "This is Blacktop. I got him last bow season." Kneeling, he strokes a cured deerskin that is flat on the floor. "I call him Blacktop because of this brownish-black tinge here," he adds, indicating the hair roots down the center of the hide, the fur that would have covered the
spine. "Want to see pictures of him?" He shows me several photographs. In
them, Frank is dressed in his camou
flage clothes, though he has removed the camouflage paint from his face for the picture. (The camouflage is nee
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June 1987 61
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essary to penetrate the deer's fright
and-flight range, and it is the main reason that bow hunters have their
own hunting season. They do not
share the woods with riflemen, who
sometimes mistake even uncamou
flaged humans for game.) The carcass
of the deer is on the ground at his knee. In one hand he holds the bow he used to kill the animal; in the
other, he holds one of the animal's
antlers, showing the rack to good advantage for the photographer. He shows me the hunting journal he
keeps. "August 29. Light frost this
morning (55 days since the last frost of spring). From the porch I saw three deer grazing at the edge of the hay field. One a spikehorn, another with a perfect eight point rack, the last
with a fringe of black fur on top.
Blacktop is 140 pounds, Perfect
Eight 120, Spikehorn less than a hun dred. They grazed through for
twenty minutes, disappeared into Nolfi's woods." Frank watched for
Blacktop throughout the fall, spot ting him once a week or so until the season started in November. Frank
recounts the confrontation he wit
nessed between Perfect Eight and
Blacktop just before the rut, when the bucks become territorial. "And
then," Frank says, acting out the role
of his deer, "Blacktop says 'enough of this' and rears on his hind legs, still with Perfect Eight locked in his rack, and he shoves him back, just bull dozes him out of the way." For
a
moment I'm afraid Frank will bull doze me out of his living room, but he
stops short before me. "That's the
last I saw of Perfect Eight." The flesh side of the deerskin has
slashes and scuffs at the neck. Did
Frank have trouble skinning him?
"No," he says. "Feel this?feel the
difference between the neck and the
skin down here." The skin at the
neck is thicker, stiffer. "That's all scar tissue, from years of fighting.
The scars go right through. You know
how I got him?" Frank is ready to tell me the story. "It was sheer accident.
Had nothing to do with my skill?it was just luck. Three of us went in the
woods, walking into our bow stands, and we came to mine first. I had this
stuff on, this imitation fox urine
scent, and I was waiting there, wait
ing in my stand." I know that every
year Frank hangs his hunting clothes
outdoors in the rain and weather for
the week before hunting season, and
then rubs them with cut apples. He
bathes with scentless soap, and for
two weeks before the season he eats
no meat: he is convinced that deer
can identify the scent of a carnivore.
"A fox runs by. That was just luck.
Blacktop came along, tracking
us to
see where we were headed, and he
passed right beneath me. I held on
him, not moving, and then I let it
go." The arrow passed into the rib
cage just behind the shoulder, pierc ing the heart. "If it hadn't been for that fox, I don't think I'd've got him.
He was tracking three of us, then two
of us and a fox."
The hunter's accomplishments and
failures, though reported in story, or
demonstrated to the group in the form of the kill, are individual: the hunter is not measured against other hunters but against something more
permanent and enduring. There are
no famous hunters; hunting happens beyond the city's need to generate
celebrity. (Hunters can and do achieve status as legends. The time
scape of hunting is that of myth, rather than history.) Hunting is bor
ing to watch because its rhythms are
slow, and its attraction is exercised not in physical action (though there is
enough of this, in its time, to test the
body: more hunters die of heart attacks than accidental gunshots) but in the state of mind and body that it
evokes. "The hunter," Ortegay Gas
set wrote in his Meditations on Hunt
ing, "is the alert man." In this the
hunter resembles no one so much as
the thinker, who must also be alive to
possibilities, who must also endeavor
to take nothing for granted, who also
cultivates an intense and open atten
tion because he must be prepared to
catch a glimpse of the quarry in any quarter. To this I would add: if the
opposite of aesthetic is anaesthetic, then I know of no more completely aesthetic activity than hunting.
My vice-presidential dinner com
panion told me that hunting as sport is wrong. Usually the people who tell
me this perceive only three broad cat
egories of human activity: work, rest,
and play. But if hunting is a sport, then so too is the ritual of holy sacra
ment, for it is this ceremony that
hunting most closely resembles in its essence. The ritual cleansing, the
mental and physical preparation, the isolation from social bonds through solitude or imposed silence?all these are prelude to the catharsis of
redemption in religion and the loss of innocence in the hunt. More than
one mystic has journeyed out from
the city to spend forty days in the wil
derness, the better to comprehend the essential qualities of being; it is no accident that in doing so they trav eled beyond the land of the shepherd and ploughman to enter the land
scape of the predator and the prey. In the terrain of the hunt a human can
escape the oppressive presence of the cultural self, mirrored in the human
works and tracks and trails that domi nate the planet, and begin to discover what lies beneath: something pre historic, a world devoid of human sig nifiers that is nevertheless alive with
significance.
Hunting is undeniably sport for some. This, it must be remembered,
occurs in a culture that brings us
celebrity tug-of-war on television.
The trophy hunter whose goal it is to accumulate experiences and stuffed
heads; the profligate buffalo shooters who "hunted" from trains a hundred
years ago; the urban male whose
annual hunting trip offers the chance to break the bonds of culture and
responsibility that define him: all have been seduced into envisioning the hunt as sport, as ego gratification, as a distraction to fill an emptiness of time or existence, as mere negation of that which constrains and confines. It is an attitude shaped by the neces sities that impinge upon hunting in our culture. Hunting-as-sport is testi
mony both to our continued need to
experience the primitive human na
ture that predates (and still underlies) the culture of the civitas, and to the
power of civil society to deflect the
expression of that need, to channel it
into forms that (at the least) do not subvert the premises of
an actively
disauthenticating culture and (at the
most) might make that culture more
bearable. A chief vehicle of that deflection is language: although hunting and farming could not be
more antithetical, Fish and Wildlife
Departments across the country
speak of the number of animals "har
vested," speak of leaving "seed pop ulations" in place at the end of the
season, speak of game as a "renew
able resource." In the world as it is,
hunting as an expression of a desire for an experience with the truly other cannot attain its object. The Dis
neyfication of our world is complete: hunters are mere consumers of expe
rience, experiences orchestrated by a
machinery that is as effectively hid den from view in the woods as the
garbage trucks are hidden in the
Magic Kingdom.
62 June 1987
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So hunting, a
practice that once
defined a way of life, remains popular today as mere sport?a category of
ar
tifice unknown to the paleo-hunter. One of the reasons sport is popular in our culture is because the goals of our tribe include the maintenance of civil relations between strangers, which is
necessary if we are to have large cities and a division of labor. Something deeply rooted within us is offended
by continual and abject dependence on
strangers?this is why we invent
governments and then by turns mock them or use them to punish others?
and under the compulsion of man
ners our need to experience the full
panoply of our capacities is frus trated. Sport provides
an arena of
acceptable release. Demonstrations
of physical strength, endurance, and
courage outside the realm of sport are
likely to be pathological?one recalls G. Gordon Liddy, holding his hand
in a candle flame?unless, of course,
they are channeled into war. (Signifi cantly,
war is more often conceived
through metaphors drawn from sport than the hunt.) In everyday life, the excellences of the body are subli
mated into emotional or intellectual realms?and the damage done by this abstraction can be seen anywhere
a
stadium full of fanatics is electrified
by violence or its potential. The vicarious nature of such experience prevents the fan from achieving much of anything in the way of
knowledge of self and the self's
capacity for bloodlust. Hunting, even
hunting-as-sport, has the virtue of
offering immediate experience, in the face of which only the most obdu rate of souls can maintain an immu
nity to introspection.
Even so, hunters are not renowned
for their sensitivity. In our culture's
stereotype, the hunter is a man who
is prone to violence and misogyny, whose annual hunting trip is a chance
to drink to excess, and whose bois
terous disregard for others hides deep
insecurity. But this stereotype has lit
tle to do with hunting as it is, and only
marginally relates to hunting as it is in
our society. Contrary to the agri culturalist's myth, hunting does not
make the hunter bloodthirsty, does not inure the hunter to the difficulty of causing death. This, admittedly, is
counter-intuitive?if not mysterious.
We are so ill-prepared to face
mystery, and hunting presents the
hunter with so many of them; is it any
wonder that hunters trivialize their
activity through drink and laughter? Ancient mapmakers sketched fan
ciful drawings of sea monsters and wild beasts in the margins and remote
whitenesses of the world; paleo hunters found their solace in ritual and in their habitation of sacred
space. But the expectation in our
culture has been that science will pre vail, that what is and can be known is certain and measurable. We have as a
consequence come to believe that in
matters cognitive as well as carto
graphic there is little more than amusement to be gained in exercis
ing one's urge to tell by transmuting the ineffable into faith or art. About that which we cannot speak,
we
must, science tells us, remain silent;
and so far from being a cause to reflect on the limitations of language, or an
invitation to the exercise of imagina
tion, the great blank stretches in our
knowledge and the silence that be falls us when we find ourselves there
are, at worst, thought to be "real"?a
true reflection of the nature of
things?or at best a sign that (lame benediction if ever there was one) "further research is required."
But the hunter has the oppor tunity to know better; the hunter will know that there is a pure incipience in every movement, every stillness,
every twig that crackles in the woods, for each of these foretells the
moment of the archetypal event,
when the hunter confronts the hunted and each becomes, in the in
stant, a part of the other, in a psychic transcendence of boundaries that is
ritually mimicked in the act of eating that comes later, when flesh becomes
flesh, when energy is transformed
through death into life, when two
become one. The hunters I know, without exception, eat what they kill, and pause before a meal made from
what they have killed, in order to pay
homage in one way or another to the
animal that feeds them; they would no more think of foregoing this duty than they would think to treat a fast food burger and soft drink as if they
were the body and blood of Christ.
Science sees any meal as a pure
caloric exchange?wine and bread
into flesh, energy into energy?and we are weighted down by that knowl
edge. The best that most of us
achieve is to understand mystery as
metaphor. The hunter, I believe, has the opportunity
to see farther.
And yet the hunter is as much a
product of our culture as anyone else,
and as much its captive. Even if we as
individuals have our doubts about the
ability of our culture to disenchant
completely the cognitive terrain that
shapes the psyche, we can express
our doubts most easily only as
doubts, for we are that much the crea
tures of our creation. The positive
assertion, the language of faith in the
elusive, comes to modern tongues
only with great difficulty. Ours is a
language better suited to bullying things into understanding
or com
pliance than to calling apparitions into being, and our mimetic arts have
long since forsworn participatory rit
ual for spectacle, drama, and story.
This means that, ultimately, a
non-hunter's expression of distaste
for what hunters are and do may be no more than an expression of dissatis
faction with the limits of our lan
guage. Only the sturdiest or the most
disturbed of psyches can long main tain a belief system whose categories,
premises, and axioms are
inexpress ible and find no resonance in the lan
guage and experience of others. And so the tales the hunter tells?the tales that are the one universally accepted act of homage to the transcendent nature of the experience?become little more than shallow exercises in
demonstrating the techniques and lore of the hunt. At their best these stories will reflect a hunter's under
standing of the moral codes and per haps even the inescapable ironies of the hunt; but still they fall short of
rendering the experience truly. The audience and the tale teller know that the action of the hunt takes place
within a deeper interior terrain as
well, and that the hunter has a claim to
territory?a home range?like no
other in this indifferent cosmos. The
story's inability to express this?and the knowledge that, imperfect though it is, the story is the only hope of expressing it?is the source of the hunter's near-insatiable appetite for
telling and retelling the tales. In
translation, in the publicly available
vocabulary of our culture, the story of
any hunt is ineluctably drawn toward the corrupting presence of ego, and
the knowledge shared by hunters will
sound like cheap and brutal machismo. Other tribes have a vocab
ulary, in language and ritual and
belief, that lets each tale affirm the
depths of meaning of the hunt. In our
tribe, mystery is reduced to a mere
temporary puzzlement, and the self is held accountable for what is, after
all, a cultural ignorance.
June 1987 63
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- Article Contents
- p. 59
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- p. 62
- p. 63
- Issue Table of Contents
- The North American Review, Vol. 272, No. 2 (Jun., 1987), pp. 1-72
- Front Matter
- About This Issue [p. 2-2]
- Foreign Correspondence
- Ginsberg in the Mountain City [pp. 4-5]
- Presentation to the King [p. 5-5]
- Saying Grace [pp. 6-10]
- The Magic Hour [pp. 11-14]
- On Voyage [pp. 15-17]
- The Anima [p. 18-18]
- Solace [pp. 19-21]
- Design [pp. 22-26]
- Codpiece [p. 26-26]
- Unclassifieds [pp. 27-34]
- Ed [pp. 35-38]
- Katzenjammer [p. 38-38]
- Killer Butterfly [pp. 39-43]
- Daddy Rat [pp. 44-51]
- Winter Mines [pp. 52-56]
- Wheel-of-Fortune [pp. 57-58]
- The Present Case
- On Hunting [pp. 59-63]
- Familiar Matters
- Thoreau for Commuters [pp. 65-69]
- Books & Authors
- Thou Shalt Kill: Murder in Fiction [pp. 70-72]
- Kasper [p. 71-71]
- Back Matter

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