世间奇伟诡怪之脑洞尽在余之颅内喀斯特。

Mr. Fox of Transcendentalism

Proper language brings proper imagery. And when I say “Mr. Fox”, or even when I write it down, I can see a greasy top, a pair of narrow eyes, awl-like chin and limbs who recently find their twin brothers—chopsticks. But I know my beloved readers might not know this Mr. Fox, so it’d be safer if I formally introduce him to you.

Mr. Fox, aged 18, single, basic achievement: admitted to the PPE program of RUC

That’s all. Thank you.

So Mr. Fox found himself quite troubled these days. For 18 years, all he has accomplished was just a college offer and this defined him, a proud and honored RUC freshmen, and nothing else.

He came up with a solution: to become a hermit. Mr. Fox downloaded a course of Transcendentalism on MOOC, then evacuated to Bath Forest. There he built a wooden cottage by a pond, ploughed some paddy and went hunting every week, which basically was just copying Thoreau’s route.

However, things have changed dramatically only one day before Mr. Fox broke down and fled back to China. What actually happened was, a Vulpes, meaning “red fox” in English, was caught in his trap.

Mr. Fox didn’t panic at first. He thought that foxes would taste fabulous with some wild celery in a cauldron of nice, warm broth. The fox was sleeping when found, perhaps worn out by simply trying to escape. Mr. Fox took it by its gigantic fluffy tail, dragging the fox all the way back to this cottage.

“Ah, I love this fur.” He said to himself. The words were supposed to be reassuring for someone who’s alone in the forest, while now, on the contrary, sounded super eerie to Mr. Fox. “But I do love this fur. It could make a neat scarf when the Lady of Winter dresses this land with ice and snow. Useless, why am I saying useless stuff?”

“I do love this fur.” Mr. Fox kept whispering.

He had never slaughtered anything in his life, but he did know the steps. First, cut the throat open and drain the blood; second, defur all the edible parts; third, take out the intestine, liver, stomach, heart—everything. When Mr. Fox approached it, he couldn’t resist a strong temptation to feel the fur, touch it, rub it, kiss it and own it. Yes, he’d love to own it, make it into scarf, into gloves, into shoes, into coats!

His movement waked the fox. Before Mr. Fox could know it, he pinned the tail of the fox to the trunk of a willow nearby, along with which the animal gave out a disheartened shriek.

“Yeah, crawl as you wish, Mr. Fox, but I’m gonna rip your fur off. Whip, I need a whip.” He didn’t understand why would he himself address to the fox as “Mr. Fox”, but he just did. It was male, but not human. Mr. Fox ran up and down the cottage to find a whip but without success, so then he broke a willow branch and started to whip the poor creature.

“Yes! Get out of your fur, Mr. Fox! Make you into scarf! Into gloves! Into shoes! Into coats! Into scarf! Into gloves! Into shoes! Into coats! Into scarf…” he shouted out at first, as if trying to balance the eulogy sung by the fox. But then shouting turned into muttering, unconscious but still vicious muttering.

No matter how much it hurt, the fox refused to abandon its beautiful fur. To be honest, it had not seen this coming. Every one of its kind who died from fur was always shot dead first and then cut open, which would be far less pain then what it was going through right now. It couldn’t understand for what reason this skinny young man was so reluctant to grant it a clean and quick one. Shrieking became groaning, struggling became crawling. It lied down on the meadow, gasping for air in vein, for its lungs failure.

Mr. Fox bent down to check the fox. “Books are liars. This method doesn’t work at all!” Profoundly frustrated, he picked up a rock as the size of his hands and bashed against the back of the fox’s head. Chartreuse foam flooding out of its mouth, eyes and fangs were going blue, the fox was in its last minutes. Impressed by the reaction of the fox, he lied down by the half corpse, gazing into its pupils until the light in them froze.

Mr. Fox then closed his eyes by the body. He slept like a baby that night. However, when the morning arrived and Mr. Fox found himself lying next to a dead fox, he put himself back together on his feet as fast as he could. Then Mr. Fox rushed down to Heathrow and took the earliest flight back to China.

This is Mr. Fox of Transcendentalism. One has become the food of raven and worms. The other kept washing his hand that once held the whip. And the face of the fox and the visage of Mr. Fox, gradually it was harder and harder to tell which from which.

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