I started reading _The Mating Season_ by Alex Brunkhorst, this evening on the train. I’m almost finished, and I love it– it’s an amazing love story, with strange and lovely details about insects and small “creatures,” and a hidden architectural backstory. But it feels dreamy, with cabochons of witty detail that take me by surprise.
This prologue is so beautiful, so fanciful and astonishing, that I immediately wanted to read it aloud, or photocopy it and share it with a friend via post. Additionally, I’ll share it here:
“It was mating season, and Grasshopper was getting frisky. At first I thought his abrupt change in behavior was the result of Daylight Savings Time, a twice-yearly ritual that temporarily wreacked havoc on the entire menagerie. Each year, the sliding scale of the sun caused Butterfly to crash against the ceiling, as if suddenly forgetting the sky was no longer the limit. Tadpole nearly drowned; I had to gently, then more forcibly, prod him onto his green, heart-shaped life raft. Even Ant, my most resilient species, stumbled through October in desperate search for meaning. He usually found it in mid-November, in time for the leftover turkey and mashed potatoes I fed him after Thanksgiving.
But it was now the hour before the Festival. It was universally agreed that the Committee of Illumination–Hummingbird, Mockingbird, Bat, and Owl–had outdone itself this year. Chandeliers had been dimmed in favor of white teardrop lights, seaweed candles floated in the saltwater pond, and my stars had congregated just shy of the glass ceiling. It was said that Chairwoman Firefly, who had always been a micromanager of sorts, paid particular heed this year, and the house glistened with her touch.
Even more magnificent than the decor were my beloved creatures. They were in deep and serious preparation, standing before vanities and performing last-minute adjustments before venturing into the dark night to the Meadows of Lophelia. Rabbit and Catfish fought over the blue eyeliner, Mosquito practiced his strut, Daddy Long Legs assisted Tarantula in combing his radiant black coat. Ladybug, traditionally one of my more insecure creatures, had chosen a pink floor-length gown that showed off her single black spot. Bumblebee–Ladybug’s best friend and a fashion devotee–advised against the choice, arguing that pink clashed with deep red; but Ladybug had been steadfast, and now Bumblebee felt a bit envious watching her dress in front of the three-way mirror. Dove asked for Moth’s aid in hooking her top butterfly clasp; Jellyfish practiced his introduction (his date was known to be sea royalty); Peacock held a small bouquet of purple daisies that he would later present to his escort. There was a little bickering, some chiding, and a lot of teasing, but such antics were not surprising for a family of 310.
There was music, too, a preamble to the twelve-piece orchestra that awaited at the Meadows of Lophelia. Some of the melody came from my creatures themselves: the aggressive chirp of Cricket, the chatter of Woodpecker, the slow hum of Veery Bird. Other harmonies gushed from my stars, a collective flicker of lights murmuring quietly.
Wings fluttered, antennae twitched, beady eyes looked at beady eyes. My creatures lined up single file, jockeying to be the first to the Meadows. The subtle notes of the cello, the throaty oboe, the whimsical flute; from acres away I could hear the symphonic beginnings of the Festival. My creatures heard it, too. Their laughter tickled the air. The Committee of Music, satisfied with the beginnings of Chopin’s ‘Fantaisie in A Major,’ hovered near the front of the line. The Committee of Illumination, still intent on their duties, extinguished the candles and unplugged the white lights.
It took less than three minutes for the greenhouse to dim and go black, and another six for my creatures to line up. I looked at Millipede, the first creature in line, and opened the greenhouse door.”
I only have this book because Matt wanted to read a book by the same name by a writer with the surname Wodehouse; it’s apparently satire about finding a bride in English high society. The library sent this _The Mating Season_ instead. We only have this book because, as the book jacket tells, Ms. Brunkhorst originally wrote it “as a Christmas gift for a close friend.” Serendipity times two.








