My friend Florence Guerin is French or Argentinian or you'll know. We closed our geographical circle when we discovered that summer in the same murciana hamlet that Florence came to after a teenage getaway. Florence is mademoiselle of a proustian literary salon. But Florence, who is Flor and also Flo, mounts structures for circus shows with which she travels half the world and plastins her writing experience as Olga Tokarczuk. He was in Australia at the devastating moments of his inextinguishable fire. There he was reunited with Brownie, his bomber friend. It's not bullshit. Flor wears a cowboy hat. In his latest Australian post, haunted by the plight of poor people—the most natural and not-so-natural disasters—Flor wrote: "In the centre of cities we walked the hologram of well-being" I was linked to a 2013 news story: "Australia will kill 10,000 wild horses from helicopters."
Thirsty horses consumed, during the contumaz drought, the water to be drunk by native species. Those horses will have died because mercy is dangerous and we live in a rare world. We annihilate foreign specimens for the conservation of the species that have adept; we hunt wolves that kill sheep for hunger and then protect them from extinction; we shot the foxes that could control the plague of bulls. I do not know how to measure animal suffering or find the faithful of the balance of ecological balance, but for strange humanitarian reasons we intervene with brutality in nature. I experience a mammalian empathy: I endure worse the slaughter of seal pups on the snow than the spectacle of the fly's agony glued to the paper. There's nothing religious about my bigotry. It's a bodily thing. I devour fish, but I feel a little bourgeois rejection at the thought of eating the birth lamb. I come from a land of steakhouses, and I blame myself for writing about these things when so many people go hungry, but I guess it's all related: horse killing, famine, fires, my hesitant nausea. There is something demagogic about our identification with pets, farm animals and wild animals—in their personifications—or in respect for their idiosyncrasies. We experience a bloody contradiction between the rationality of his exterminations—paradoxical lychive food and ecological reasons—and the traumatic images of his massacres: the double morality of eating Bambi without remorse at the weight of our omnivorous condition. Now meat grows in specimens from a single vaccine cell, and I can't digest that revolution either. I fear to get sick and wonder about the fate of beef cows in sustainable ecosystems that retain aquifers today sheared by the cultivation of food for the farting cows: will the beef slaughter flow into a universal barbecue that will burst the guts of a childhood not accustomed to eating?; will the meat be frozen in the refrigerators of multinationals of the authentic gold-paid burger?; Will we book specimens, little flatulents, for zoos and circuses? In the first world, Dr. Dolittle talks amicably with giraffes and ostriches, Flor saves cats, and I suffer nightmares in which I see my ribs open and horses dejected by telescopic sight rifles.