“There were crumbs in it,” said Coltfoot. “Besides, wood-alcohol isn’t a lubricant.”
Thus from simile to allegory, to inference via insinuation—discourse in terms possible only between old friends of different species born in the same culture among fellow bacilli of their period.
“Hang it all,” insisted Annan, “the world isn’t swimming in syrup!”
“Nor in vinegar, Barry.”
“I can’t see the sugar-candy aspect of a story,” said Annan. “All that lovey-lovey-sweetie-sweetie goo is as dead as Cleopatra.”
“There was a Cleopatra. And she loved. There was beauty, brilliancy, ardour, wit, gaiety, pleasure——”
“—And the asp!”
“Yes, but why star the asp? It bit only once. Why devote the whole story to ominous apprehension, the relentless approach of horror from beyond vast horizons? There were long intervals of sunlight and song in Cleopatra’s day. Why make of your book a monograph on poisons? Why turn it into a history of the asp? Why minutely construct a treatise on serpents?
“Good Lord, Barry, when you’ve a good dinner served you at home, why slink to the nearest ash-can and rummage for putrid bones?”
“After all, there are a few million garbage cans in the world.”