[Welcome to the Jungle]

If you can't see the image above, press here for other browsers.



" So finally I began to scream at him. 'What the hell are you doing here anyway? Why don't you go home to Oklahoma, see some good doctors, eat some good food, get fixed up?' He gazed at me tranquilly out of his rheumy washed-out blue eyes and sat there dressed like the last of the beachcombers with that disgraceful house crumbling and tilting around him. God, the whole thing was just unbelievable. 'What are you doing here for God's sake?' I yelled into his deaf old ears, leaning right up into his face so that he would have to hear me. 'Why are you here anyway?' And now hearing me he smiled a secret and superior smile, as though he knew something that I didn't, and croaked out in an old voice that was equal parts W.C. Fields and Edward G. Robinson, 'It's the lure of the tropics, boy; it's the lure of the tropics.'" (Moritz Thomsen, The Farm on the River Emeralds)


Page last updated June 6, 1999. All material Copyright 2004 Dr. Nicholas B. Carter.
Contact via email [mail]