Thursday, September 29
The frog startles me by clearing its throat. It has settled itself on top of the bookshelf. Watery, moss-stained footprints are visible on the spines of half a dozen poetry anthologies. It is eyeing the small, tattered moths that flitter halfheartedly around the lamp.
"Giant squid are like frogs, you know," it says in low tones. "The twin wisdoms of Catching Things and of Going Away Very Fast suffuse our very flesh."
The frog actually talks like that. You can hear the capital letters. I feel like it's somewhere between The House on Pooh Corner and Rainer Maria Rilke.
"We are old souls," says the frog - and leaps, spastically but with nonetheless blinding speed, towards some hapless flying insect. There is a sort of wet thumping sound as it collides with the wall, and for a long time afterwards I can hear it muttering unintelligibly from behind my chair.