Death in Miami Beachhere to be slaughtered. Crucified like thieves,they breathe in little sighs, they gulp, theywait.

At a further stage, in the room where theactual slaughtering occurs, the butchers stridethrough gore in heavy boots. The visitormust proceed on a catwalk; a mis-step willplunge him into a slow river of entrails andblood. Because it was near Christmas time,the owners of the plant had installed aspeaker system for musical divertissement ofthe butchers, and while the turtles driedunder the sun or lay exposed to the butchersknives, Christmas bells tolled out, electroni-cally amplified, "God rest ye merry, gentle-men," or the Bing Crosby recording of" /ldeste Fideles."

These commercial details are not intendedto support a special plea of behalf of thehumane harvesting of Barbados turtles. Infact, let me grant that I sought out this sceneand visited the abattoir without having anyproper business there at all: merely curiosityand the need to confirm my imaginationabout it. I should be judged for vulgarity bythe man who chooses out of purity not tofollow me, not by the man I saw lurking out-side, with a face ravaged by the horrifiedfascination which makes it impossible forhim to visit his dreams. What had I donewhich he could not permit himself? Was Ifilthied, was I weakened by pleasure butobscurely nourished, was I fed on covetedturtle joys after tramping in turtle blood?Had I asked permission from the butcherand plied a knife with my own hands on thebelly of one of the slow, unblinking, dragon-headed ancient sea beasts? And did it archits graceful dragon neck in reproach as Istabbed? He stared at me like a jealouslover, imagining my wickedness, rabid andhopeless, wanting to bury his head in thereek on my hands.

Most of us turn from the vision of deathonly out of weakness, and this is no turningfrom death. Serve up your turtle steak,gourmet friend, with no protest from me;Ill eat at your table. ("A nice rendition,"one gentleman said of Bing Crosby to hiswife. Turtle is tasty, somewhat gamy meat.

19Protein nourishes the brain--brings oxygenand freedom.)

A Frw DaYs later in Miami Beach, Iparticipated in two trivial accidents.My hotel was in one of the oldest, thereforeleast expensive parts of the town, only a shortblock from the sea and a short block fromrestaurants and therefore very convenient tomy casual schedule: Breakfast at Whelans, astretch of writing, a long swim, lunch, apleasant bit of loafing on the beach, then per-haps some sun-baked work at my typewriteron the roof ("solarium") and another swimbefore dinner. I had the habit in the morningof disregarding the elevator, hurrying downa back stairway of the Webster Hotel,through an alley, and so short-cutting to thedrugstore. One day, wearing tennis shoes, Ifelt an evil slide and crunch underfoot, andknew first by the shrinking in my heart andthen by simple inspection that I had steppedon a small animal.

It seemed to be a variety of tropical cock-roach. It had been perhaps an inch-and-a-half long, longer with its wings spread, and ithad strayed from the raised platform nearbywhere the hotel stored its rubbish. Now itlay twitching, legs scrambling in the airwithout moving, and a yellow ooze seepedfrom its body within the crushed carapace.I suppose it was already dead despite all thisnervous movement. I went for a walk, toldmyself that this was a silly matter to be fret-ful about (I was merely isolated), and finallyI took my habitual breakfast: orange juice,scrambled eggs, English muffin, coffee.

An hour later the dead beast was glued byits own innards to the paving of the alley;the Florida sun was moving through the skyabove it. But now there was also a row ofants leading to it, another leading away, liketwin caterpillars dissembling their unity ofpurpose. They were not merely eating, ofcourse, they were carrying off the meat totheir hive some place. But the dead roachstill twitched, and when the tickling jawsstruck, it fluttered, squeezed, blindly pushedin its place. The ants went scrambling away,each carrying its minuscule steak.

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