In the May issue of New English Review, the curious doctor sits on his terrace in the French countryside and considers why he rarely sees dead birds, never smells the odor of dead rats in Paris, and why the sound of owls in the night comforts him.

I think I could easily become a nature mystic. The sound of owls at night—the call and its answer—soothes me, not being a mouse or a small mammal. When I hear the cuckoo I experience a sense of joy, though I know it is a bad bird and its vocal repertoire is less even than that of a rap singer.