” If I were a plant, I would not want to be one of those plants that have too much to do with man. No oats, no wheat, no barley, without being able to get out of it, in a field in good standing – and one does not even leave corn to their corn for their entertainment – nor especially those vegetables that are submitted and stored, these carrots in line, those beans that The salad is made with the baguette, which is forced to fade with a squeeze in the heart when it is so beautiful around, and they would like to be wide open.
I would still be willing to be herbal tea, wild thyme, or sage, provided it was in one of those high winds where only the shepherds go to pick them. But I would rather be heather, blue gentian, gorse, thistle if needed, on an abandoned moor, or even a mushroom not poisonous, but not too edible, which is born in the moss, one morning in the darkest hollow wood, which turns pink without being seen and dies alone the next day without anyone getting involved.
And if I were an animal, I would not want to be a beast of a house or a farm, not even the goat that is attached to the picket and enter a barn to milk it, nor one of these chickens in the bass court, all mingled with the markets of man and who can say to each other when they have laid an egg: “It’s fifteen sous that I did there and I’m worth ten francs a pound” … No! No! I would rather be hare, or fox, or doe, or nightingale who never meet the man until the day he kills them.
And I have been all my life a most domestic animal, a beast of burden, a dog tied up, a caged canine. Or vegetable to make soup. It was the will of God. “