THE NEW YORKER FI by Doris Lessing January 21, 1956
Nowadays, when I meet types who flush grouse or work salmon (I think these are the correct terms), I more often than not be heard saving, “All the same, food, spive me a flock of guinea fowl in open try.” From there, I pass on to casual mention of the higher fauna—deer and lions, and so on—and in no time the most hardened sportsmen are oozing envy of what sounds like a girlhood spent oual safari. I keep the truth to myself.
Not that I haven’t seen lions. I have entered them, and other iing animals, in the London Zoo, where I go to look at them from time to time. And on my home ground, which is Mashonaland, Southern Rhodesia, fauna of every kind used to flourish and, for all I know, flourish yet. I do not care. I never did.
Along with my indiffereoward big and little game goes the fact that this whole plex is linked irretrievably with my sibling rivalry (for my brother) and my mase protest (again……（内容加载失败！）
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