Then there was the matter of the jungle profligacy which I began to resent as if it were an overdressed woman parading her entire cache of sparkly jewels before me. I felt that the jungle was constantly showing off to itself - every rock, every tree, every surface that would stay still was trimmed, bedecked , baroque with greenery there was fistulas of bushes wrapped with creeping vines and spotted with moss ....... It was an exhausting performance that never ended and for what? To prove the imperturbability of nature , I suppose it's unknowability it's fundamental lack of interest in humanity. Or at least that's what it seemed like at the time a mockery. It was absurd. I knew to wake each day and resent the jungle and my own insignificance in it . But I couldn't help it. I began to think that I might be going a little ,- well not crazy I suppose but that I might be losing touch as they say now. And then I felt childish and amazed ............
An excerpt in The people in the Trees by Hanya Yanagihara
