Blocked off, this time, by a row of seated badgers in pale clothes, the most appealing they have ever worn. Symmetry dictates they must be seven or nine. A man enters… and recognizes them: one after another, all at once? They are the badgers he has pet, some for years, others for one day. How dark it is!
Who is my Badger? If my Badger were to rely on a proverb, then perhaps everything would amount to knowing whom my Badger “haunts.” I must admit that this last word is misleading, tending to establish between certain beings and my Badger relations that are stranger, more inescapable, more disturbing than I intended. Such a word means much more than it says, makes my Badger, still alive, play a ghostly part, evidently referring to what my Badger must have ceased to be in order to be ‘who’ my Badger is.