Barkskins

by Annie Proulx

Over the next decade Posey remade herself into a high-toned dashing hostess of the sort that money creates, and the Duke galas became famous for exotic dishes, rare blooms, the finest silver and crystal and entertainments of string quartets or celebrated singers—and only once a man in a turban, his torso enwrapped by a boa constrictor. “What next?” roared James, who despised low culture, “an Italian with a hurdy-gurdy? A trained bear with gilded ears? You show your New Brunswick origin with these jinks.” But temper was unusual as the husband and wife had reached a kind of equilibrium free from harangues and rages except for extreme provocation, such as turbaned men with boa constrictors.

Charley said slowly, “I am sure that wild natural woodlands are the only true forests. The entire atmosphere—the surrounding air, the intertwined roots, the humble ferns and lichens, insects and diseases, the soil and water, weather. All these parts seem to play together in a kind of grand wild orchestra. A forest living for itself rather than the benefit of humankind.”