The Sound Of A Wild Snail Eating Part 2

Snail-eating predators come in all forms, from mammals of all sizes to amphibians, birds, and various insects, including ants, centipedes, beetles, and tinier parasites. Even a few species of spiders resort to dining on escargots, though as Simon Pollard and Robert Jackson point out in their chapter in Natural Enemies of Terrestrial Molluscs, Natural Enemies of Terrestrial Molluscs, venom injection by a spider requires "close contact . . . [and] tends to mean a face full of mucus, which, for most spiders, may be an unacceptable price to pay for a meal." venom injection by a spider requires "close contact . . . [and] tends to mean a face full of mucus, which, for most spiders, may be an unacceptable price to pay for a meal."My snail was downright savvy; some of its active defenses were so subtle that I wasn't even aware they were strategic. Simple withdrawal into the sh.e.l.l not only provided physical protection but also gave the appearance that no one was home. My snail used this defense quite successfully on me the day it arrived in the pot of violets. Oliver Goldsmith notes this behavior:The snail, thus fitted with its box, which is light and firm, finds itself defended, in a very ample manner, from all external injury. Whenever it is invaded, it is but retiring into this fortress, and waiting patiently till the danger is over.A snail's slow locomotive speed makes it seem vulnerable, but it may actually be a survival method, saving it from predators whose hunting activity is triggered by fast movement. The silence of its gliding also protects it from those who hunt by sound.Being slimy is a complex defense system that goes well beyond the ability to repel a h.o.m.o sapiens. h.o.m.o sapiens. Large predators can't get a grip on a slippery creature, and smaller parasitic insects may get stuck in the ooze or have their mouth parts gummed up. If the usual slime recipe isn't enough of a deterrent, a special batch with particularly toxic and bad-tasting chemicals can be copiously produced on the spot. For a gastropod, survival of the fittest often means survival of the slimiest. Large predators can't get a grip on a slippery creature, and smaller parasitic insects may get stuck in the ooze or have their mouth parts gummed up. If the usual slime recipe isn't enough of a deterrent, a special batch with particularly toxic and bad-tasting chemicals can be copiously produced on the spot. For a gastropod, survival of the fittest often means survival of the slimiest.One well-evolved pa.s.sive defense was evident in the way my snail's earth-colored sh.e.l.l blended into its environment. I was constantly nonplussed by how the snail could vanish right in front of my eyes against the terrarium's flora, even when it was moving.Then there was my snail's brilliant strategy of elusively changing its sleeping spots. It might be on its side, drawn into its sh.e.l.l beneath a fern frond, and thus not visible from above; or nestled against a rotting branch the color of its sh.e.l.l; or in a crevice, hidden by a bit of lichen. It was amazing how the snail, with virtually no sight, found such perfect hiding spots.It was in Tony Cook's chapter in The Biology of Terrestrial Molluscs, The Biology of Terrestrial Molluscs, t.i.tled "Behavioural Ecology," that I found the sentence that best expresses a snail's way of life: "The right thing to do is to do nothing, the place to do it is in a place of concealment and the time to do it is as often as possible." t.i.tled "Behavioural Ecology," that I found the sentence that best expresses a snail's way of life: "The right thing to do is to do nothing, the place to do it is in a place of concealment and the time to do it is as often as possible."

EVERYTHING ABOUT a snail is cryptic, and it was precisely this air of mystery that first captured my interest. My own life, I realized, was becoming just as cryptic. From the severe onset of my illness and through its innumerable relapses, my place in the world has been doc.u.mented more by my absence than by my presence. While close friends understood my circ.u.mstances, those who didn't know me well found my disappearance from work and social circles inexplicable. a snail is cryptic, and it was precisely this air of mystery that first captured my interest. My own life, I realized, was becoming just as cryptic. From the severe onset of my illness and through its innumerable relapses, my place in the world has been doc.u.mented more by my absence than by my presence. While close friends understood my circ.u.mstances, those who didn't know me well found my disappearance from work and social circles inexplicable.

Yet it wasn't that I had truly vanished; I was simply homebound, like a snail pulled into its sh.e.l.l. But being homebound in the human world is a sort of vanis.h.i.+ng. When encountering acquaintances from the past, I sometimes see a look of astonishment cross their face, as if they think that they are seeing my ghost, for I am not expected to reappear. At times even I wonder if a ghost is what I've become.

16. AFFAIRS OF ASNAIL.

The emotional natures of snails, as far as love and affection are concerned, seem to be highly developed, and they show plainly by their actions, when courting, the tenderness they feel for each other.

- JAMES W WEIR, The Dawn of Reason, The Dawn of Reason, 1899

ONE MORNING I looked into the terrarium and was surprised to see a cl.u.s.ter of eight tiny eggs. They were on the surface of the soil, just under the edge of the birch log, and were the color and size of pearl tapioca. I wondered if they were fertile and if they would hatch. I watched with interest as the snail visited the egg site every few days to tend them. On several occasions, the snail appeared to hold each egg in its mouth for a little while to "slime" it, or so I presumed, and thereby keep it at the right moisture for hatching. I looked into the terrarium and was surprised to see a cl.u.s.ter of eight tiny eggs. They were on the surface of the soil, just under the edge of the birch log, and were the color and size of pearl tapioca. I wondered if they were fertile and if they would hatch. I watched with interest as the snail visited the egg site every few days to tend them. On several occasions, the snail appeared to hold each egg in its mouth for a little while to "slime" it, or so I presumed, and thereby keep it at the right moisture for hatching.

Woodland snails are hermaphrodites. While rare among mammals, this characteristic is common in the majority of other animal groups and in the plant kingdom as well. A snail may find a partner randomly or show a preference for age or size. They mate in late spring, early summer, or fall, after an elaborate and complex courts.h.i.+p. A terrestrial snail that has been isolated for a while can, rather conveniently, self-fertilize, thus founding a new colony and ensuring the survival of its genes.By chance, the previous year, I had watched the sensuous scene of two Burgundy snails courting in a French meadow in the film Microcosmos, Microcosmos, directed by the scientists Claude Nuridsany and Marie Perennou. Bruno Coulais' original music composition "L'amour des escargots" provides an operatic backdrop to the snails' obviously pleasurable, lengthy, l.u.s.ty, and slimy embrace. directed by the scientists Claude Nuridsany and Marie Perennou. Bruno Coulais' original music composition "L'amour des escargots" provides an operatic backdrop to the snails' obviously pleasurable, lengthy, l.u.s.ty, and slimy embrace.In Patricia Highsmith's short story "The Snail-Watcher," the main character observes two snails in love and is enthralled:Mr. Knoppert had wandered into the kitchen one evening for a bite of something before dinner, and had happened to notice that a couple of snails in the china bowl on the drainboard were behaving very oddly. Standing more or less on their tails . . . their faces came together in a kiss of voluptuous intensity.

Fascinated by what he's seen, Mr. Knoppert begins to read everything he can find on snails: [He came] across a sentence in Darwin's Origin of Species Origin of Species on a page given to gastropoda. The sentence was in French . . . [and] the word on a page given to gastropoda. The sentence was in French . . . [and] the word sensualite sensualite made him tense like a bloodhound that has suddenly found the scent. made him tense like a bloodhound that has suddenly found the scent.

I decided to follow in the research footsteps of Mr. Knoppert. Since he had turned to Charles Darwin for information on snail romance, so would I. My own research suggested that Mr. Knoppert may have been looking in the wrong book, as it was in The Descent of Man The Descent of Man that I found the sentence, in the chapter on molluscs. It was a quote from Darwin's colleague the Swiss American zoologist Louis Aga.s.siz. Apparently too explicit for Victorian England, Aga.s.siz's observations had remained in the language of romance. The sentence did not contain the word that I found the sentence, in the chapter on molluscs. It was a quote from Darwin's colleague the Swiss American zoologist Louis Aga.s.siz. Apparently too explicit for Victorian England, Aga.s.siz's observations had remained in the language of romance. The sentence did not contain the word sensualite, sensualite, but it left me as curious as Mr. Knoppert, so I sent the quote off to several French-speaking friends with the resulting translation: "Whoever has had the opportunity to observe the lovemaking of snails will not question the seductiveness of their movements and airs, which antic.i.p.ates the amorous embrace of these hermaphrodites." but it left me as curious as Mr. Knoppert, so I sent the quote off to several French-speaking friends with the resulting translation: "Whoever has had the opportunity to observe the lovemaking of snails will not question the seductiveness of their movements and airs, which antic.i.p.ates the amorous embrace of these hermaphrodites."

The Victorian naturalists were eager to weigh in on a snail's love life. "The snail is, in fact, a very model lover. [It] will spend hours . . . paying attentions the most a.s.siduous to the object of [its] affections," proclaimed the author of "Snails and Their Houses." Also smitten, the naturalist Lorenz Oken was much blunter: "Circ.u.mspection in feeling, dainty voracity, and immoderate l.u.s.t appear to const.i.tute the spiritual character of the . . . Snails."And then William Kirby mentioned something that sounded implausible: A snail's "courts.h.i.+p is singular, and realizes the Pagan fable of Cupid's arrows, for, previous to their union, each snail throws a winged dart or arrow at its partner." I read more about these curious darts in Gerald Durrell's autobiography Birds, Beasts, and Relatives. Birds, Beasts, and Relatives. Durrell was ten years old and living with his family on the Greek island of Corfu when he happened into a forest just after a rainstorm: "On a myrtle branch there were two fat, honey- and amber-coloured snails gliding smoothly towards each other, their horns waving provocatively." Durrell is intrigued: Durrell was ten years old and living with his family on the Greek island of Corfu when he happened into a forest just after a rainstorm: "On a myrtle branch there were two fat, honey- and amber-coloured snails gliding smoothly towards each other, their horns waving provocatively." Durrell is intrigued:As I watched them they glided up to each other until their horns touched. Then they paused and gazed long and earnestly into each other's eyes. One of them then s.h.i.+fted his position slightly so that he could glide alongside the other one. When he was alongside, something happened that made me doubt the evidence of my own eyes. From his side, and almost simultaneously from the side of the other snail, there shot what appeared to be two minute, fragile white darts . . . The dart from snail one pierced the side of snail two and disappeared, and the dart from snail two performed a similar function on snail one . . . Peering at them so closely that my nose was almost touching them . . . [I watched as] presently their bodies were pressed tightly together. I knew they must be mating, but their bodies had become so amalgamated that I could not see the precise nature of the act. They stayed rapturously side by side . . . and then, without so much as a nod or a thank you, they glided away in opposite directions.The "love darts" Durrell describes are tiny, beautifully made arrows of calcium carbonate, and they look as if they've been crafted by the very finest of artisans. They are formed inside the body of the snail over the course of a week and can be as much as one-third the length of the sh.e.l.l. The dart's shaft is hollow and circular and, depending on species, may have four finlike blades, which are sometimes f.l.a.n.g.ed; one end is harpoon sharp, while the other end comes to a flair with a corona-like base.Some species produce a new dart for each mating; others withdraw and reuse them in successive matings. A particular species might keep just one dart in stock; others have a "pouch" with a pair or more. In Practical Biology, Practical Biology, T. H. Huxley comments on these Cupid's darts: "In the T. H. Huxley comments on these Cupid's darts: "In the spiculum amoris spiculum amoris . . . we have a structure, almost without parallel in the whole animal kingdom." . . . we have a structure, almost without parallel in the whole animal kingdom."The trauma of being hit by a dart, however, can sometimes put a snail off its courts.h.i.+p. Darts are not technically necessary for mating, and less than a third of all snail species are dart shooters. It is thought that the dart transmits a slime containing special pheromones that may improve the safe storage of the partner's sperm.A romantic encounter between a pair of snails can take up to seven hours from start to finish and involves three phases. First there is the lengthy courts.h.i.+p, in which the snails draw slowly closer, often circling each other, smooching, and exchanging tentacle touches. If they find they are not quite to each other's liking, they may end their romance, but if things are proceeding well, then in some species, dart shooting occurs.In the second phase, the snails embrace in a spiral direction and mate. Some species of snails simultaneously swap sperm, while others will be male or female at a particular mating and then reverse their roles the next time. Apparently being a hermaphrodite is not always easy; if two snails of a species that take on gender roles want to be the same gender simultaneously, a conflict may occur. Regardless of the method, and a.s.suming all goes well, sperm is exchanged either internally or externally; depending on the snail species, it may be offered in elaborately designed and decorated packages called spermatoph.o.r.es.Consummation is followed by the last phase, resting; the snails, still quite near each other, both withdraw into their sh.e.l.ls and remain immobile, sometimes for several hours. Regardless of the mating methods of a particular species, fertilization occurs internally, after the lovers have parted.In Highsmith's story "The Snail-Watcher," I could now understand why Mr. Knoppert's wife "squirmed with embarra.s.sment" when he "narrated snail biology to fascinated, more often shocked friends and guests." Even Durrell is so surprised by what he sees that he consults his mentor, the biologist and zoologist Theodore Stephanides. Durrell's brother Lawrence, previously bored with discussions of natural history, suddenly becomes quite interested:"Good G.o.d," cried Larry. "I think it's unfair. All those d.a.m.ned slimy things wandering about seducing each other like mad all over the bushes, and having the pleasures of both sensations. Why couldn't such a gift be given to the human race? That's what I want to know.""Aha, yes. But then you would have to lay eggs," Theodore pointed out."True," said Larry, "but what a marvellous way of getting out of c.o.c.ktail parties-'I'm terribly sorry I can't come,' you would say. 'I've got to sit on my eggs.'"Theodore gave a little snort of laughter."But snails don't sit on their eggs," he explained. "They bury them in damp earth and leave them.""The ideal way of bringing up a family," said Mother, unexpectedly but with immense conviction. "I wish I'd been able to bury you all in some damp earth and leave you."Gerald's mother may have been impressed with another perk of snail parenting: a snail can keep its partner's sperm alive for several months-even up to several years, if necessary-waiting for the best environmental conditions before proceeding to fertilize and then lay its eggs. My snail had probably encountered a romantic partner either very early in the spring or sometime during the prior year. The lack of predators and the provisions of large portobellos and a steady water supply were just the encouragement a prospective snail parent needed to go ahead with egg laying.Eggs are usually laid below ground in several clutches of thirty to fifty each. My snail may have laid so few eggs and kept them above ground because the conditions in the terrarium were slightly too wet that week. Burying the eggs in such a circ.u.mstance might have been unsafe, since they could have burst as a result of osmosis.As the embryonic snail grows, it absorbs some of the calcium from its protective eggsh.e.l.l. On hatching, it will eat whatever remains of the sh.e.l.l, and if food sources are scarce, it may also eat a nearby unhatched egg or two that would otherwise have been a sibling.

17. BEREFT.

the snail has vanished! where it's gone n.o.body knows - YOSA B BUSON (1716 1783)

ONE MORNING I searched for the snail, but as usual it was hard to find. I looked again among the ferns and mosses and around some lichened branches. It was not foraging for calcium near the pile of crumbled eggsh.e.l.l. It was not by the little tree, nor was it near the mushroom. It was not high on the terrarium gla.s.s, nor was it by the mussel sh.e.l.l. It was not by the little batch of eggs it had laid several weeks earlier. It was not in any of its many hiding places. It had vanished. I searched for the snail, but as usual it was hard to find. I looked again among the ferns and mosses and around some lichened branches. It was not foraging for calcium near the pile of crumbled eggsh.e.l.l. It was not by the little tree, nor was it near the mushroom. It was not high on the terrarium gla.s.s, nor was it by the mussel sh.e.l.l. It was not by the little batch of eggs it had laid several weeks earlier. It was not in any of its many hiding places. It had vanished.

There was no gla.s.s top on the terrarium. Since it was the home of a living, breathing creature, I thought ventilation might be important. As far as I knew, the snail had never before left the terrarium. Even while sleeping in the pot of violets, it had always returned from its farthest expeditions.Now, inexplicably, it was gone. Perhaps, with its eggs laid, it was finally determined to head back to its wild woods. It was probably as homesick as I was. But I simply couldn't fathom my existence without it. Its tiny sleeping presence had comforted me by day, and its explorations had entertained me by night.I wondered if I could find and follow its slime trail, but the dry wood of the crate left no trace, and I was too weak to get down on the floor and search for further clues. From my bed I dropped pieces of mushroom onto the floor, hoping that the snail would appear. There were endless places in the room where it could hide-it could be anywhere-and I feared someone might step on it. I dreaded the sound of a terrible crunch.As the hours pa.s.sed, the situation seemed more and more futile, and I realized that I was almost more attached to the snail than to my own tenuous life.

THERE IS A CERTAIN depth of illness that is piercing in its isolation; the only rule of existence is uncertainty, and the only movement is the pa.s.sage of time. One cannot bear to live through another loss of function, and sometimes friends and family cannot bear to watch. An unspoken, unbridgeable divide may widen. Even if you are still who you were, you cannot actually fully be who you are. Sometimes the people you know well withdraw, and then even the person you know as yourself begins to change. depth of illness that is piercing in its isolation; the only rule of existence is uncertainty, and the only movement is the pa.s.sage of time. One cannot bear to live through another loss of function, and sometimes friends and family cannot bear to watch. An unspoken, unbridgeable divide may widen. Even if you are still who you were, you cannot actually fully be who you are. Sometimes the people you know well withdraw, and then even the person you know as yourself begins to change.

There were times when I wished that my viral invader had claimed me completely. How much better to live an exuberant life and then leave as one exits a party, simply opening a door and stepping out. Instead, the virus took me to the edge of life and then left me trapped in its pernicious shadow, with symptoms that, barely tolerable one day, became too severe the next, and with the unjustness of unexpected relapses that, overnight, erased years of gradual improvement.In a March 2009 article in the New Yorker, New Yorker, Atul Gawande wrote, "All human beings experience isolation as torture." Illness isolates; the isolated become invisible; the invisible become forgotten. But the snail . . . the snail kept my spirit from evaporating. Between the two of us, we were a society all our own, and that kept isolation at bay. The snail was missing, and as the day waned, I was bereft. Atul Gawande wrote, "All human beings experience isolation as torture." Illness isolates; the isolated become invisible; the invisible become forgotten. But the snail . . . the snail kept my spirit from evaporating. Between the two of us, we were a society all our own, and that kept isolation at bay. The snail was missing, and as the day waned, I was bereft.

18. OFFSPRING.

[The snail] drops a cl.u.s.ter of thirty drops a cl.u.s.ter of thirty to fifty eggs looking like homeopathic pills . . .

Under the microscope the translucent egg-envelopes present a beautiful appearance, being studded with glistening crystals of lime, so that the infant within seems to wear a gown embroidered with diamonds.

- ERNEST I INGERSOLL, "In a Snailery," 1881

THAT EVENING I was expecting a friend who had traveled a long way to see me. But all I could think about was the missing snail. When my friend arrived, she looked into the terrarium and lifted up a piece of moss. There, in a hole it had dug, was the snail, along with another, much larger clutch of eggs. I was expecting a friend who had traveled a long way to see me. But all I could think about was the missing snail. When my friend arrived, she looked into the terrarium and lifted up a piece of moss. There, in a hole it had dug, was the snail, along with another, much larger clutch of eggs.

I had allowed the terrarium to dry out just a bit and its condition was now more favorable for egg laying. Thus the snail had burrowed under the moss and deposited its eggs where they would be well hidden and stay evenly moist. The terrarium was an expectant snail's dream, a safe nursery for hatching offspring.My snail had recognized and dealt competently with the changing humidity, which it continued to monitor-periodically tending the eggs laid on the surface, but visiting the buried eggs only a couple of times. Though why a.s.sume that a gastropod would be any less skilled at planning for offspring than a h.o.m.o sapiens h.o.m.o sapiens?Eventually I would learn that I may be the first person to have recorded observations of a snail tending its eggs. Malacologists would have guessed that a snail visiting its eggs was more likely to eat them than to provide care. Because the first clutch was laid on the surface of the soil and numbered so few, I could see that none of the eggs were missing after the snail's visits. In the wild, revisiting eggs could give a predator a fresh trail to follow, but my snail was free from those concerns. Since it was separated from its colony, the survival of its genes was critical; perhaps this had triggered more attentive egg care.While too much moisture can endanger eggs, they can withstand surprisingly dry conditions. "The vitality of snails' eggs almost pa.s.ses belief," says Ernest Ingersoll:They have been so completely dried as to be friable between the fingers, and desiccated in a furnace until reduced to almost invisible minuteness, yet always have regained their original bulk upon exposure to damp, and the young have been developed with the same success.As a result of so much egg laying, my snail lost a noticeable amount of weight; its whole body shrank in comparison to its sh.e.l.l size. For about a week it spent more time than usual sleeping, and then it began to eat mushroom ravenously.

I NEVER SAW THE NEVER SAW THE first clutch of eggs hatch. This probably occurred at night, and in addition to my flashlight, I would have needed a magnifying gla.s.s. One morning I noticed that some of the original eggs had disappeared, and when I looked closer, I saw a few tiny snails moving around; if they hadn't been moving, I wouldn't have detected them. "The young one[s] emerge in a lovely bubble-like sh.e.l.l," wrote the author of "Snails and Their Houses." Their sh.e.l.ls are translucent and "so delicate," William Kirby notes, "that a sun-stroke destroys them." first clutch of eggs hatch. This probably occurred at night, and in addition to my flashlight, I would have needed a magnifying gla.s.s. One morning I noticed that some of the original eggs had disappeared, and when I looked closer, I saw a few tiny snails moving around; if they hadn't been moving, I wouldn't have detected them. "The young one[s] emerge in a lovely bubble-like sh.e.l.l," wrote the author of "Snails and Their Houses." Their sh.e.l.ls are translucent and "so delicate," William Kirby notes, "that a sun-stroke destroys them."

The hatchlings liked to hang out on the underside of the mussel sh.e.l.l, probably because of the moisture, darkness, and available calcium. Sometimes they would sleep beneath a slab of portobello, where they were out of view until they climbed up for breakfast in the evening and then were noticeable against the mushroom's white flesh. The number of hatchlings increased as the weeks pa.s.sed, and I realized that additional clutches of eggs must have been laid. Perhaps the snail had deposited them at the site of the original buried group, since it revisited that site several times, though I couldn't see precisely what was happening. Or there may have been other buried egg sites.As the tiny snails grew, their sh.e.l.ls increased in size and slowly became opaque. There must have been several weeks between hatchings, as it was easy to tell the clutches apart. One night, a younger hatchling followed one of its older siblings across the terrarium's gla.s.s side. It then crawled onto the older sibling's sh.e.l.l. The older sibling turned and looked at the younger one, and they waved their tentacle-noses wildly at each other, but there was no way for the older snail to get the youngster off its back. It seemed to be a case of sibling conflict. I didn't want to interfere, but I finally managed to sit up just long enough to detach the smaller snail and place it by the pile of crushed eggsh.e.l.ls. It spent the evening there, eating contentedly, which made me think perhaps it was after the calcium in the older sibling's sh.e.l.l.

I WONDERED HOW SOON WONDERED HOW SOON the little snails would mature, and I watched them closely. The thought of ending up with some hundred or so fertile snails was a bit mind boggling; it was an outcome best avoided. Highsmith's story "The Snail-Watcher" opens with one of her foreboding first lines: "When Mr. Peter Knoppert began to make a hobby of snail-watching, he had no idea that his handful of specimens would become hundreds in no time." the little snails would mature, and I watched them closely. The thought of ending up with some hundred or so fertile snails was a bit mind boggling; it was an outcome best avoided. Highsmith's story "The Snail-Watcher" opens with one of her foreboding first lines: "When Mr. Peter Knoppert began to make a hobby of snail-watching, he had no idea that his handful of specimens would become hundreds in no time."

While the bathroom habits of my original snail had not been bothersome-a small, neat squiggle now and then on the mussel sh.e.l.l or terrarium gla.s.s-the casts of so many at once, especially with their fast rate of growth, was leading to a rather splotched look everywhere.Given its solitary nature, I wondered how my snail was coping with a population explosion of its own creation. In the wild, nearly half an egg clutch is lost to weather, predators, or hungry first-hatched siblings, but in the terrarium the outcome was far more successful. I could only guess at the total number of offspring, as they were impossible to count; by day, each one had its own hiding place, and at night they were out and about, moving around in all directions at once. While watching my solitary snail had been peaceful and calming, watching a plethora of its young in simultaneous motion was nearly hypnotic. I had to admit that I I was just a bit overwhelmed. was just a bit overwhelmed.

OVER SEVERAL MONTHS, THERE was a gradual improvement in my condition-not so much that it was noticeable day to day, or even week to week, but I could now sit in a chair for a few minutes a couple of times a day. I wanted to try moving home, though I wasn't certain I'd be able to manage with less help. Since the prospect was daunting, I decided to leave the original snail and one of its offspring with my caregiver. Several friends, amused and intrigued by my enthusiastic "snail reports," eagerly adopted a few of the offspring as well. The rest of the numerous progeny were released into the wild where their parent snail had been found. It was only then that an official count was made: 118 offspring had hatched. was a gradual improvement in my condition-not so much that it was noticeable day to day, or even week to week, but I could now sit in a chair for a few minutes a couple of times a day. I wanted to try moving home, though I wasn't certain I'd be able to manage with less help. Since the prospect was daunting, I decided to leave the original snail and one of its offspring with my caregiver. Several friends, amused and intrigued by my enthusiastic "snail reports," eagerly adopted a few of the offspring as well. The rest of the numerous progeny were released into the wild where their parent snail had been found. It was only then that an official count was made: 118 offspring had hatched.

Part 6

FAMILIAR TERRITORY.

The crucial first step to survival in all organisms is habitat selection.

If you get to the right place, everything else is likely to be easier.

- EDWARD O. W O. WILSON, Biophilia, Biophilia, 1984 1984

19. RELEASE.

Climb Mount Fuji O snail but slowly, slowly - KOBAYAs.h.i.+ I ISSA (1763 1828)

BY MIDSUMMER, my dog, Brandy, and I were moved home. It was hard to say which of us was happier. Her cedar bed was in its familiar place, positioned in the living room to catch the morning sun. From my own bed in this same room, there was so much to take in that it was hard to know where to look first. There were the st.u.r.dy posts and beams that framed the s.p.a.ce around me; the art on the walls by friends and relatives, so full of color and life; and the window at my bedside, with its view of the natural world.

In the middle of the night, I was sometimes startled awake by an always mysterious bang coming from somewhere upstairs, but I felt only amused fondness for the escapades of the resident centuries-old ghost. I was used to the familiar eccentricities of my house, and this eased the transition of the move, though the adjustment to less day help was difficult.I missed the companions.h.i.+p of my original snail, but the time had come to return it to its wild woods. I hoped that by fall I'd be managing well enough that its single remaining offspring could come to stay with me for the winter.Snails with the longest life spans are often found in the most rugged climates. Given New England's deep winters, my snail would probably live several more years. There would be further lengthy courts.h.i.+ps and additional generations of offspring. After its sheltered life in the terrarium, it would have to readjust to the challenges of the woods, the dangerous predators, and the unpredictable weather. But with its many methods of defense and its dormancy skills, it had survived before, and I felt certain that it would do so again.I wished I could attend the snail's release, but now that I was home, I was too far away. A letter arrived from my previous caregiver, describing how she had left the one remaining offspring in the terrarium and carried the original snail back to the place in the woods where it had been found:On a misty day I took the snail out to a spot beneath an old oak tree. I set it on top of a wild mushroom. The snail became interested in the situation. It came partway out of its sh.e.l.l and then extended its head out over thin air, gradually moving its body downward, until it touched ground while still having its tail up on the mushroom's cap. Gracefully, it brought down its sh.e.l.l and tail, and with its tentacles pointed straight ahead, it made steady progress over leaves and twigs for the shelter of a downed oak limb.The original snail and I had been fellow captives, but now we had both returned to our natural habitats. As I tried to make my life livable within a few rooms of my house, I wondered how the snail was coping in its native woods. Though I was home, I was still not free from the boundaries of illness. I thought of the terrarium's limited s.p.a.ce, and how the snail had seemed content as it ate, explored, and fulfilled a life cycle. This gave me hope that perhaps I, too, could still fulfill dreams, even if they were changed dreams.Being home again was the next best thing to a cure, and though my physical limitations were still great, I was no longer completely bedridden. I was able to make occasional, brief but satisfying journeys within the house. I might retrieve some papers from a few yards away in the late morning, and then in late afternoon I'd try a rash trip around the corner to the kitchen for a fresh gla.s.s of water. I was elated to be able to manage these tiny tasks, though I paid dearly in exacerbated symptoms.From my bedside window I could follow the ever-changing weather-the wind's gentle stirrings and rages, the varied moods of rain, the interplay of sun and moon and clouds. And in the midsummer heat, the gardens surrounding my farmhouse were alive with color.There was the constant activity of small creatures flying among my perennials: hummingbirds and b.u.t.terflies, moths, wasps, b.u.mblebees, and countless other insects. There were so many different flight patterns, and the variety of wing shapes, body sizes and structures, and types of landing gear was impressive. The flow of aerial activity was so dense that I thought of it as a miniature version of New York's La Guardia Airport. Given the chaos of different species whoos.h.i.+ng by all at the same time, it was astonis.h.i.+ng that there weren't constant collisions.As I window-watched, I observed the comings and goings of my neighbors; they, too, were part of the rhythm of my familiar rural landscape. They would depart for work or errands and later return, walk their dogs, cut firewood, and check their roadside mailboxes. As twilight deepened, the low dart of a nighthawk over the field would catch my eye. Darkness brought the sparking of secret codes from the mate-seeking fireflies. Then, black on black, the swift shapes of bats would swoop for late-night morsels, and the hooting of owls would come softly, softly, from the woods-until all was quiet and still beneath the ancient brightness of distant stars and the shape-s.h.i.+fting moon.

20. WINTER SNAIL.

closing the door he drops off to sleep snail - KOBAYAs.h.i.+ I ISSA (1763 1828)

THE MONTHS Pa.s.sED, and leaves of flaming reds and oranges floated past my window, scattering and drifting. I was well settled at home, so the snail's single remaining offspring came to keep me company. This time the terrarium was a huge antique gla.s.s bowl with a forty-eight-inch circ.u.mference-it created a wonderful green spherical world. The juvenile snail was about one-third the size of an acorn. It took to sleeping during the day inside a hollow, rotting birch branch, which provided a perfect dark, damp hiding place. Occasionally I'd use a flashlight to look in and check on it.

As the days grew short, the winter's stillness was broken by the abstract, s.h.i.+fting patterns of white snow in air. I watched the flakes change their shape and size, moment to moment, as they played on the wind. They would rush downward, only to rise on an updraft, swirl gracefully around, and then descend once more, vanis.h.i.+ng into the older snow that banked the house. Periodically, howling blizzard winds would hide the dark green spruce woods from my view and leave behind an even thicker snow covering.Beneath this white blanket, wild snails were hibernating, snug in their burrows. Did they dream while they slept, and if so, were the dreams composed entirely of smell and taste and touch? Or had they drifted into a sleep so deep as to be without thought or memory?Inside my house the weather conditions were quite different. The oil furnace kept the air warm and dry. Instead of digging a hole and hibernating, my young snail estivated for several weeks at a time; it would either disappear inside the hollow birch branch or dangle upside down from the underside of a polypody fern. When it woke, it would eat mushroom and soil, drink water, and rasp at the inside of the mussel sh.e.l.l for minerals. Then it would head for the dark birch hollow or climb back up a fern frond and estivate again.There was a paradox of speed in relation to distance and time that began to intrigue me: in contrast to its slow locomotion, my snail's life cycle was quick. In seventy years it could produce seventy generations, compared to the three generations a human might produce. Although the snail moved more slowly than a human through the physical world, it traveled more quickly than a human along its pathway as an evolving species.My snail's quick life cycle also brought to mind a paradox within my own human world. While some aspects of society-such as technology and communications-were continually speeding up, other aspects, such as health care, moved at a pace even slower than my snail. During the months that I waited for appointments, underwent tests, and tried new treatments, my original snail laid its eggs, hatched its young, and returned to the woods, where it searched for a mate. Then, in late fall, it went into hibernation.As the winter months pa.s.sed, I noticed a change in my snail-watching behavior. The previous spring, when I could do almost nothing, spending time with a snail had been pure entertainment. But as my functional abilities improved just a bit, watching a snail began to take patience. I wondered at what point in my convalescence I might leave the snail's world behind.

THE ORIGINAL SNAIL HELD a place in my heart forever, and while I was fond of its offspring, it was often estivating, and I was often distracted by other things. Friends would stop by and take Brandy out for a winter hike on the woods' trails. From the window I'd watch as my dog bounded exuberantly through the snowdrifts. For sheer pleasure, she'd nosedive into the deep snow, rolling onto her back for an icy bath, her paws waving ecstatically at the winter sky. a place in my heart forever, and while I was fond of its offspring, it was often estivating, and I was often distracted by other things. Friends would stop by and take Brandy out for a winter hike on the woods' trails. From the window I'd watch as my dog bounded exuberantly through the snowdrifts. For sheer pleasure, she'd nosedive into the deep snow, rolling onto her back for an icy bath, her paws waving ecstatically at the winter sky.

Neighbors checked in on me, bringing the recent local news: a cow had taken off and was eventually found wandering through the woods, and folks out skiing behind their own house on an unseasonably warm late-February afternoon had popped off their skis, stripped down to their undergarments, climbed up a large boulder covered with leafless vines, and sunbathed, only to find days later that they were unexpectedly itchy-a rare outbreak of midwinter poison ivy. And there were stories I'd missed while I was away: a neighbor's dog had arrived home one spring day with a wild turkey egg, unharmed, held gently in his mouth.I was grateful for, and appreciative of, my closest friends and neighbors, but I still missed the outer layers of society-the acquaintances with their dual air of familiarity and mystery, and the interesting newcomers, who enliven everything. Each relapse shrinks my world down to the core. And each time I've started to make my slow way back, over many years, toward the life I once knew, I find that nothing is quite as I remember; in my absence, the world has moved forward.

THE BANKS OF SNOW were melting away, and the air hinted of the coming spring. were melting away, and the air hinted of the coming spring.

The young snail was still estivating on a fern frond. Thinking that it would be hungry when it awoke, I put a fresh mushroom in the terrarium and wondered if the snail would sense the lengthening days. I was eager for open windows and the chance to be outside, even if just a few feet from the house. I wrote to one of my doctors:I could never have guessed what would get me through this past year-a woodland snail and its offspring; I honestly don't think I would have made it otherwise. Watching another creature go about its life . . . somehow gave me, the watcher, purpose too. If life mattered to the snail and the snail mattered to me, it meant something in my life mattered, so I kept on . . . Snails may seem like tiny, even insignificant things compared to the wars going on around the world or a million other human problems, but they may well outlive our own species.

21. SPRING RAIN.

in this falling rain where are you off to snail?

- KOBAYAs.h.i.+ I ISSA (1763 1828)

THE FIRST COLD rains arrived, and as the weeks pa.s.sed and the weather warmed, the spring peepers and wood frogs began to sing in the evenings. With the increased humidity, the young snail woke up, climbed down from its fern frond, and became active again. It would soon be mature, and the time had come to release it to the wild so that it could establish a territory and search for a mate. Life without a snail was hard to contemplate. I would miss its quiet presence, but I knew the spring showers would ensure an ample supply of fresh food, giving it the best chance of survival. rains arrived, and as the weeks pa.s.sed and the weather warmed, the spring peepers and wood frogs began to sing in the evenings. With the increased humidity, the young snail woke up, climbed down from its fern frond, and became active again. It would soon be mature, and the time had come to release it to the wild so that it could establish a territory and search for a mate. Life without a snail was hard to contemplate. I would miss its quiet presence, but I knew the spring showers would ensure an ample supply of fresh food, giving it the best chance of survival.

I wrote another letter to my doctor:We have rain again today. I've been looking out the window from my daybed, wis.h.i.+ng I could do what I'd do if it weren't for this illness, which is to put on my boots and raincoat, grab a shovel, and move dozens of plants around. One spring, in a rain shower, I dug up all my tulips in full bloom and wandered around the yard holding them by their two-foot necks, with the bulb and roots dangling down and the tulip flowers staring up at me with their big Cyclops-like eyes. I decided, based on color, just where to relocate each one. If you move plants in the rain, they hardly even know it, and they did just fine. Today is a perfect snail-letting-go day.Hatched and raised in a terrarium, the young snail had been served the finest of portobello mushrooms and fresh water in a blue mussel sh.e.l.l. It had never encountered the dangers that lurked in the woods. It would have to survive on its own ingenuity, and I hoped that it would find its new home an interesting and delicious place, both familiar and very surprising.I could now occasionally manage to walk the short distance to the edge of the woods. One evening, after a light rain had turned to drizzle, I carried the young snail to a spot beneath some large hardwood trees backed by a stone wall. Placing it gently on the ground, I watched as it came partway out of its sh.e.l.l. Its tentacles lengthened, twitching with interest, and it moved them this way and that in response to the abundance of fresh odors. It explored some dead leaves, some dark green moss, a bit of lichen, and the big root of a tree. I watched it glide slowly through the dusk and vanish into the dark.For the first time, the young snail was in a world without boundaries. I wondered what it would think of this unexpected freedom. What kind of nighttime adventures would it have while I slept, and where would it hide the next morning for its daytime rest? How would it choose a territory in an endless wilderness?

22. NIGHT STARS.

Humanity is exalted not because we are so far above other living creatures, but because knowing them well elevates the very concept of life.

- EDWARD O. W O. WILSON, Biophilia, Biophilia, 1984

MY GARDENS WERE awakening, and whenever possible I was outside on a chaise longue with Brandy at my side. We watched the sunlight find its way through the branches of the crab apple tree, dappling the blue squill and crocus, and we looked for the pointed noses of tulip leaves as they emerged in the perennial beds. Each week more perennials came into bloom, and the hedge that bordered the garden began to fill with nesting birds. Having flown several thousand miles, the ruby-throated hummingbirds appeared and took up their usual summer residence in the old apple trees. They spent their time zooming between the flower beds in front of the house and the patch of poppies in the back, competing for nectar in midair with the multicolored b.u.t.terflies in an ancient interspecies dance. awakening, and whenever possible I was outside on a chaise longue with Brandy at my side. We watched the sunlight find its way through the branches of the crab apple tree, dappling the blue squill and crocus, and we looked for the pointed noses of tulip leaves as they emerged in the perennial beds. Each week more perennials came into bloom, and the hedge that bordered the garden began to fill with nesting birds. Having flown several thousand miles, the ruby-throated hummingbirds appeared and took up their usual summer residence in the old apple trees. They spent their time zooming between the flower beds in front of the house and the patch of poppies in the back, competing for nectar in midair with the multicolored b.u.t.terflies in an ancient interspecies dance.

I could close my eyes and feel the sun warm my whole length and the wind ruffle its way over me. My ears filled with the dozy hum of bees and those tiny and odd insect sounds that rise up all around, the sounds mingling in my mind with the good, deep smell of earthy life.

SPRING TURNED TO SUMMER, summer turned to fall, the snow came, and the snail and its offspring were still much in my thoughts. The original snail had been the best of companions; it never asked me questions I couldn't answer, nor did it have expectations I couldn't fulfill. I had watched it adapt to changed circ.u.mstances and persevere. Naturally solitary and slow paced, it had entertained and taught me, and was beautiful to watch as it glided silently along, leading me through a dark time into a world beyond that of my own species. The snail had been a true mentor; its tiny existence had sustained me.

Late one winter night I wrote in my journal:A last look at the stars and then to sleep. Lots to do at whatever pace I can go. I must remember the snail. Always remember the snail.

EPILOGUE.

Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

- RAINER M MARIA R RILKE, 1903, from Letters to a Young Poet, Letters to a Young Poet, 1927 1927 MY SNAIL OBSERVATIONS are from a single year of my nearly two decades of illness. I have merged that story and a few nonsnail stories with my later scientific readings. The research for this book and the gradual process of its writing matched the slow pace of its protagonist and were just as nocturnal. I found myself, once again, following the snail deep into its life. are from a single year of my nearly two decades of illness. I have merged that story and a few nonsnail stories with my later scientific readings. The research for this book and the gradual process of its writing matched the slow pace of its protagonist and were just as nocturnal. I found myself, once again, following the snail deep into its life.

While I was snail watching, there was much I did not know about my small companion, and there was just as much I did not know about my illness. I was curious about my snail's species, and solving that puzzle would take several attempts and the help of a few experts. Even more challenging was the mystery of the pathogen that had forever changed the course of my life, and I would track down the likely culprit. There was also the unknown future-my own, and that of all living things.

A QUESTION OF S SPECIES.

The snail and its offspring were wild creatures. They represented half a billion years of gastropod evolution. I wanted to understand their place in such a venerable lineage.

From a book by John Burch, How to Know the Eastern Land Snails, How to Know the Eastern Land Snails, I learned that my snail was of the subcla.s.s Pulmonata, having a lung and making temporary epiphragms for dormancy, instead of the permanent operculum that is attached to the foot of snails of some species, allowing them to shut their door each time they withdraw into their sh.e.l.l. I learned that my snail was of the subcla.s.s Pulmonata, having a lung and making temporary epiphragms for dormancy, instead of the permanent operculum that is attached to the foot of snails of some species, allowing them to shut their door each time they withdraw into their sh.e.l.l.There are sixty families of Pulmonata land snails in the world, encompa.s.sing some twenty thousand species, and so I continued on, discovering its order-Stylommatophora (eyes at the tips of the tentacles, mostly terrestrial)-and family-Polygyridae (reflected sh.e.l.l lip and large size).As to genus and species, I was at a standstill. It would take an expert to make that final determination, based on information I didn't have, such as whether the interior of the sh.e.l.l had a toothlike "nub," which I couldn't have seen with a live snail inside.I contacted Tim Pearce, a.s.sistant curator and head of the Section of Mollusks at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History, as well as the biologist Ken Hotopp at Appalachian Conservation Biology. In a series of e-mails, Tim and Ken discussed the identifying details they could glean from my photos. They considered sh.e.l.l depth and number of whorls and even the color of the eye granules at the tips of the tentacles, until finally an agreement was reached on the snail's genus and species: Neohelix albolabris. Neo Neohelix albolabris. Neo for new, for new, helix helix for spiral, and for spiral, and albolabris, albolabris, meaning white-lipped. meaning white-lipped."White-lipped forest snail" is the common name, and these North American natives roam the humid woodlands as far south as Georgia, as far north as Ontario and Quebec, and west to the Mississippi.

INVISIBLE B BOUNDARIES.

The earth is home to millions of potential pathogens, of which a thousand or so depend on human hosts. The pathogen I contracted was, in its own way, an author; it rewrote the instructions followed within every cell in my body, and in doing so, it rewrote my life, making off with nearly all my plans for the future.

My illness had started with flulike symptoms and some paralyzed skeletal muscles. Within weeks it had turned into systemic paralysis-like weakness with life-threatening complications. After a slow and partial recovery over three years, I had successive severe relapses. Specialized testing brought a diagnosis of autoimmune dysautonomia, a dysfunction of the autonomic nervous system, which can cause paralysis of the circulatory and gastrointestinal systems.Dysautonomia can make it difficult for a person to stand or sit upright because the blood vessels cannot maintain circulation against the pull of gravity. Astronauts experience this problem when returning to the earth's gravitational field. At one end of the "orthostatic intolerance" spectrum is syncope: a person might stand up but then immediately faint. At the other end of the spectrum are cases like mine: in an upright position, the body just gets weaker and weaker as it tries unsuccessfully to maintain blood pressure. The ability to be upright is a recent evolutionary adaptation, and it is still surprisingly fragile. The weight of the world doesn't pin me down figuratively; it pins me down literally. Horizontal surfaces are forever my flotation cus.h.i.+ons through life.I was also diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS), also known as myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME), a badly named, severe, postinfectious condition that involves permanently reduced blood volume, autonomic disorders, and genes that have been deactivated.Seven years into my illness, further testing would reveal a clearer diagnosis: I had an acquired mitochondrial disease. Mitochondria are the "powerhouses" in each of the cells in our bodies, and they are found most densely in skeletal and autonomic muscle tissue. They metabolize nutrients and oxygen into energy in an intricate two-hundred-step process. Each of us is born with a number of unique genetic mutations, and we "acquire" additional mutations throughout our lives. A particular mutation, "unmasked" by a particular pathogen, may result in a mitochondrial error, which can then cause metabolic disease.In my case, the pathogen may have been the virus that was spreading through the small European town I visited. Or it may have been something in the hotel water I drank one night. There was also the sick surgeon next to me on my flight home, though by then I had already succ.u.mbed to strange and severe symptoms. Fifteen years into my illness, I would learn about tick-borne encephalitis (TBE), a member of the Flaviviridae family, which includes West Nile virus. Lyme disease can be a coinfection with TBE, though if so in my case, it resolved. TBE is not yet known to have crossed the Atlantic to North America, and my United States doctors, at the time, would not have recognized the symptoms. But its bizarre, biphasic onset matched my illness presentation: flulike symptoms, followed several weeks later by systemic paralysis-like weakness and autonomic dysfunction, with a poor long-term prognosis.

CODA.

Pathogens, those critical ingredients in the primordial soup from which life originally emerged, helped shape all species, and it was because of a pathogen that I had found myself nose-to-tentacle with a snail.

While illness keeps me always aware of my mortality, I realize that what matters most is not that I survive, nor even that my species survives, but that life itself continues to evolve. As the Holocene ma.s.s extinction rushes on, which species will be left? And what new creatures will evolve that we cannot now imagine-for what creature could ever have imagined us?At the moment, we humans are lucky to coinhabit the earth with mollusks, even if we are a recent presence in their much longer history. I hope the terrestrial snails, secreted away in their burrows by day across the earth's vast landscapes, will continue their mysterious lives, gliding slowly and gracefully through the night, millions of years into the future.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

BOOK WRITING IS MOSTLY a solitary pursuit, but this particular project brought me partway out of my sh.e.l.l. If it weren't for E. LaRoche, I might never have written the earlier essay that led to this book. I owe thanks to E. Somers at the a solitary pursuit, but this particular project brought me partway out of my sh.e.l.l. If it weren't for E. LaRoche, I might never have written the earlier essay that led to this book. I owe thanks to E. Somers at the Missouri Review, Missouri Review, as well as to C. Mason, both of whom noticed the snail story when it was barely hatched. When I began to read about gastropods, I did not know I would fall in love with malacology literature. As I wove thousands of scientific words into my personal snail observations, M. Porter's excellent developmental editing skills, particularly her fearless and flawless insight as to what to cut, were invaluable. Undaunted by my endless revisions, M. took the project under her wing, reading every draft and surviving the feat miraculously. as well as to C. Mason, both of whom noticed the snail story when it was barely hatched. When I began to read about gastropods, I did not know I would fall in love with malacology literature. As I wove thousands of scientific words into my personal snail observations, M. Porter's excellent developmental editing skills, particularly her fearless and flawless insight as to what to cut, were invaluable. Undaunted by my endless revisions, M. took the project under her wing, reading every draft and surviving the feat miraculously.

Great appreciation and respect go to L. Osterbrock, D. Dwyer, and P. Blanchard; each of them brought editorial savvy to my pages and responded with good humor even when hearing from me out of the blue and sometimes at unusual hours; it is a lucky writer who has editorial friends with perfectionist streaks in different time zones. When I thought I had finished the ma.n.u.script, J. Babb smartly nudged me into doing one last editorial pa.s.s, which turned out to be essential. Thanks to L. Babb for her response on a pivotal chapter.The following friends read one or more drafts, and their terrific questions, thoughts, and suggestions helped me shape and deepen the story: K. Adams, D. Smith, A. Levine, D. Graham, D. R. Warren, P. Kamin, L. Fisher, and S. Lester. Astute advice and support came at various junctures from J. Hamilton, T. Coburn, and J. Babb. Thanks to the MacDowell Colony and the Vermont Studio Center, and my heartfelt grat.i.tude to S. Tullberg for making impossible dreams happen.Timothy A. Pearce, who must have been a gastropod in his past life, is a remarkable malacologist. He answered zillions of questions with astonis.h.i.+ng patience, thoughtfulness, curiosity, and infinite knowledge. Every time I glided too far into gastropod territory and got stuck, Tim came to my rescue. Great appreciation to the biologist Ken Hotopp, who knows just where to find a New England Neohelix albolabris Neohelix albolabris and exactly what it might be up to at any given moment. I was lucky to have Tim and Ken as snail consultants. The thought-provoking, occasionally startling, and sometimes funny conversations and correspondence I had with them expanded my understanding of these small animals and their place in the world. If any error in malacology information has found its way into these pages, it is most certainly mine, not theirs. and exactly what it might be up to at any given moment. I was lucky to have Tim and Ken as snail consultants. The thought-provoking, occasionally startling, and sometimes funny conversations and correspondence I had with them expanded my understanding of these small animals and their place in the world. If any error in malacology information has found its way into these pages, it is most certainly mine, not theirs.Grat.i.tude to the wetlands ecologist A. Calhoun for her early avid reading of the ma.n.u.script; to K. Vencile for his fascinating feedback; to Dr. R. Smith for his infectious-disease knowledge and his interest in malacology; to the staff at the University of Maine Cooperative Extension; and to the wonderfully kind and always helpful librarians at my local library.I am also indebted to the nineteenth-century naturalists whose words enrich these pages. They observed every nuance of snail behavior, and their lyrical writings are unconstrained by today's more technical scientific language.A special thanks to N. Gla.s.sman, who found the snail and without whom this story would never have happened. Appreciation to H. Schuman for sharing his love of words and to J. Miles for sharing her love of the natural world. For fulfilling a lifelong longing for island writing, I owe thanks to the Websters. To Kathryn Davis: you gave me the gift of my own words-few gifts are as great.My agent Ellen Levine and my editor Elisabeth Scharlatt believed in a very small story about an even smaller creature, and despite the hurried pace of the publis.h.i.+ng field, they had the patience to wait for the final draft. Thanks, also, to the good staff at Algonquin Books and Workman Publis.h.i.+ng; to R. Careau for her excellent, meticulous, and thoughtful copyediting and fact checking; to L. Lieberman for his wise counsel; and to C. Ferland, M. Schuman, K. Bray, and C. Guillette.A number of people helped with language translations: W. Smith and L. Hill (Chinese); A. McCormick and C. Stancioff (French); T. Hayes (Latin); Anna Booth and Erica Walch (Italian); and K. Hardy (Wabanaki). Many of my questions on the haiku of Issa and Buson were thoughtfully answered by D. G. Lanoue and J. Reichhold.Thanks to Kathy Bray for her exquisite soft pencil half-tone ill.u.s.trations, which reveal the private everyday moments in a snail's life. Working with Kathy was a rare and wonderful opportunity. My grat.i.tude to Susan Brand for her lovely cover snail and to D. R. Warren for kindly filming an adventurous Neohelix albolabris. Neohelix albolabris.A heartfelt thanks to all the folks who have accompanied me throughout my journey through illness or joined me along the way for the side trips. Please know how appreciated you are and that this book would not have happened without you. Some of you have a rare ability to understand and accept the invisible, and I could not have survived without that support: S. Tullberg, D. Lamparter, S. Spinney, L. Maria, A. Swan, and two truly exceptional physicians, Dr. C. Rosen and Dr. D. Bell.Lastly, to all the creatures who at one point or another have shared their lives with me, including the snail and its 118 offspring, my deep h.o.m.o sapiens h.o.m.o sapiens thanks. thanks.