Look at me. I'm so old and shrivelled and gross. But don't you
worry about that. I'm here to tell you about Freddie the Frog.
Freddie the Frog was the most amazing frog there ever was. He was
normal-looking, sure. But inside, he was special. Because I am so
old and shrivelled and gross, I am not going to be able to explain to
you in a way that gets across to you the fundamental truth of how
special Freddie was.
Freddie the Frog usually sat on a medium-sized rock down at the
creek, at the dead-end of an upper-middle-class neighborhood in
New England. He sat there, all through sunny June,
blinding July, and swampy August, just dreaming. Freddie closed his
eyes and felt unbounded space. The robins and cicadas and wind in the
birch trees echoed in his head -- textures in the emptiness that constituted him.
He ate things. He caught flies. Sometimes he swam. But Freddie
was magnificent for his flights of imagination. He did not realize
that he was merely a frog. He experienced himself as a thoroughly enjoyable,