The Hymn to Dionysus

by Natasha Pulley

squirrels,” he said seriously, “I really like squirrels; it’s because they have tiny hands and their tails are silly.”

“He’s like wine. If you describe what he does, he seems awful, but if it’s happening to you, it’s lovely.” “There speaks an intoxicated man.” “Yes,” I said greyly.

They were called philosophers. This one was haranguing some poor man who was too polite to get a rock. As far as I could gather, the point of them was to try and reason out the truth of things—but only things you couldn’t go out and check, because otherwise that was too much like hard work—and then yell about it a lot, to the eventual end of generating a following of attractive young men, ostensibly to teach, but in fact to stare at creepily.