anything less would never have done, & it was that revelation, that what she had thought a tree had always been a web but an old web, unglued, pendulous with dust from corridors; that the predator was not whatever suburban Shelob had spun it but time, that had out-waited that filament trap & quietly drunk its inhabitant & dropped its husk to earth. All the cars were dead spiders
. . .
‘A principal rule for writers, and especially those who want to describe their own sensations, is not to believe that their doing so indicates they possess a special disposition of nature in this respect. Others can perhaps do it just as well as you can. Only they do not make a business of it, because it seems to them silly to publicize such things.’
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg
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