Lone Fox Dancing: My Autobiography

by Ruskin Bond

No life is more, or less, important or interesting than another—much of it, after all, is lived inside our heads.

If we are lucky, we love with both heart and body,

You never really get over the loss of a beloved. You learn to live despite it.

Some mornings I carry my small table, chair and typewriter out on to a knoll below one of the oaks, and take a little help from the babblers and bulbuls that flit in and out of the canopies of leaves. White-hooded babblers; yellow-bottomed bulbuls. Never still for a moment, they help me with my punctuation. For dialogue I depend more on the crickets, cicadas and grasshoppers who keep up a regular exchange, debating the issues of the day. But for reflective and descriptive writing I look into the distance, at the purple hills merging with an azure sky; or I examine a falling leaf as it spirals down from the tree and settles on the typewriter keys.

I played an audio of babblers and bulbul after reading this and read it again. It was magical

the future is too unpredictable for anxiety.