[Note: I did not realize it was Thoreau's birthday at the time the following incident occurred.]
Last night, I saw a small fly on my closet door. I picked up the nearest book to swat it. Then I realized that the book I was holding, the book I was about to kill the fly with, was Walden. This doesn't feel right, I thought. So, I put the book down, picked up a copy of the Brooklyn Rail that was lying nearby, and killed the fly with that.
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