Nothing But Biography I am an historian of small calamities. Today, I ignore a war as I weed a row of heirloom beans. Yesterday, it was the broken parts of a bird in a room I thought I kept locked. This is not two juncos trapped in the head of a house. This is history, and, as evidence, listen to the cat’s proud epileptic squall. She walks a ring around a mouse that rotates in place, front legs snapped. I have flushed the body and taken down the Britannica. Here it says that a town under siege once lost its rats, and then its dogs, and finally its children. I’ve always been partial to arithmetic, but I don’t think they got it right – I think history happens when we’re too tired to tell the truth. Tomorrow, I’ll walk a while and put in some lily bulbs. It’s putting history on its head, these small acts of anticipation. I will be forced to remember, my advantage over the cat, who will sleep by my side and lick itself clean. Then, write in my diary and finish The End of Beauty. It’s a balancing act: I’ve had people surprise me with kindness, I’ve heard corn grow in the dark. The cat is finally asleep, but there’s a sound downstairs. I have to stop now. .