为了纪念弗莱神父(1884-1985)，我们遇到了太多奇怪和奇妙的事情。对跖点的蛋白质——一种巨大的、球形的、炽热的蜜蜂花——在超市里出售!我们在颓废，我们没有资格。我们究竟做了什么，才配得上热带地区的所有农产品——这些火红的宝藏，像炮弹一样堆积起来的丰饶的果实，这些菠萝，像军队一样整齐地站立着，这些层层叠叠，这些绿色的阳台，这些由于弯腰劳动而变得富丽堂皇的彩带?异国情调无处不在，它在我们没有日元或需要它之前就来到了我们身边。从上城区到下城区的蔬菜杂货商都来自韩国。兰花，一桶桶的繁盛，只是在从夏威夷飞来的飞机上有些疲惫，被丢弃在人行道上;小苍兰、小苍兰从海外翻译过来有点胖;剑兰同样从它们祖先的深红色中分离出来;而且，这些单身汉的钮扣，与欧洲原来的蓝色矢车菊的路边和铁路堤岸相比，变化不大。 But it isn't the railway embankments their featherweight wheels of cobalt remind me of, it's a row of them among prim colonnades of cosmos, snapdragon, nasturtium, bloodsilk red poppies, in my grandmother's garden: a prairie childhood, the grassland shorn, overlaid with a grid, unsealed, furrowed, harrowed and sown with immigrant grasses, their massive corduroy, their wavering feltings embroidered here and there by the scarlet shoulder patch of cannas on a courthouse lawn, by a love knot, a cross stitch of living matter, sown and tended by women, nurturers everywhere of the strange and wonderful, beneath whose hands what had been alien begins, as it alters, to grow as though it were indigenous. But at this remove what I think of as strange and wonderful, strolling the side streets of Manhattan on an April afternoon, seeing hybrid pear trees in blossom, a tossing, vertiginous colonnade of foam, up above— is the white petalfall, the warm snowdrift of the indigenous wild plum of my childhood. Nothing stays put. The world is a wheel. All that we know, that we're made of, is motion. Anonymous submission.