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Viruses are embedded into the very fabric of all life.
- Luis P. Villarreal, "The Living and Dead Chemical Called a Virus," 2005
From my hotel window I look over the deep glacial lake to the foothills and the Alps beyond. Twilight vanishes the hills into the mountains; then all is lost to the dark.
After breakfast, I wander the cobbled village streets. The frost is out of the ground, and huge bushes of rosemary bask fragrantly in the sun. I take a trail that meanders up the steep, wild hills past flocks of sheep. High on an outcrop, I lunch on bread and cheese. Late in the afternoon along the shore, I find ancient pieces of pottery, their edges smoothed by waves and time. I hear that a virulent flu is sweeping this small town.
A few days pass and then comes a delirious night. My dreams are disturbed by the comings and goings of ferries. Passengers call into the dark, startling me awake. Each time I fall back into sleep, the lake's watery sound pulls at me. Something is wrong with my body. Nothing feels right.
In the morning I am weak and can't think. Some of my muscles don't work. Time becomes strange. I get lost; the streets go in too many directions. The days drift past in confusion. I pack my suitcase, but for some reason it's impossible to lift. It seems to be stuck to the floor. Somehow I get to the airport. Seated next to me on the transatlantic flight is a sick surgeon; he sneezes and coughs continually. My rare, much-needed vacation has not gone as planned. I'll be okay; I just want to get home.
After a flight connection in Boston, I land at my small New England airport near midnight. In the parking lot, as I bend over to dig my car out of the snow, the shovel turns into a crutch that I use to push myself upright. I don't know how I get home. Arising the next morning, I immediately faint to the floor. Ten days of fever with a pounding headache. Emergency room visits. Lab tests. I am sicker than I have ever been. Childhood pneumonia, college mononucleosis - those were nothing compared to this.
A few weeks later, resting on the couch, I spiral into a deep darkness, falling farther and farther away until I am impossibly distant. I cannot come back up; I cannot reach my body. Distant sound of an ambulance siren. Distant sound of doctors talking. My eyelids heavy as boulders. I try to open them to a slit, just for a few seconds, but they close against my will. All I can do is breathe.
The doctors will know how to fix me. They will stop this. I keep breathing. What if my breath stops? I need to sleep, but I am afraid to sleep. I try to watch over myself; if I go to sleep, I might never wake up again.
1. Field Violets
at my feetwhen did you get here?snail
- Kobayashi Issa (1763 - 1828)
In early spring, a friend went for a walk in the woods and, glancing down at the path, saw a snail. Picking it up, she held it gingerly in the palm of her hand and carried it back toward the studio where I was convalescing. She noticed some field violets on the edge of the lawn. Finding a trowel, she dug a few up, then planted them in a terra-cotta pot and placed the snail beneath their leaves. She brought the pot into the studio and put it by my bedside.
"I found a snail in the woods. I brought it back and it's right here beneath the violets."
"You did? Why did you bring it in?"
"I don't know. I thought you might enjoy it."
"Is it alive?"
She picked up the brown acorn-sized shell and looked at it. "I think it is."
Why, I wondered, would I enjoy a snail? What on earth would I do with it? I couldn't get out of bed to return it to the woods. It was not of much interest, and if it was alive, the responsibility - especially for a snail, something so uncalled for - was overwhelming.
My friend hugged me, said good-bye, and drove off.
At age thirty-four, on a brief trip to Europe, I was felled by a mysterious viral or bacterial pathogen, resulting in severe neurological symptoms. I had thought I was indestructible. But I wasn't. If anything did go wrong, I figured modern medicine would fix me. But it didn't. Medical specialists at several major clinics couldn't diagnose the infectious culprit. I was in and out of the hospital for months, and the complications were life threatening. An experimental drug that became available stabilized my condition, though it would be several grueling years to a partial recovery and a return to work. My doctors said the illness was behind me, and I wanted to believe them. I was ecstatic to have most of my life back.
But out of the blue came a series of insidious relapses, and once again, I was bedridden. Further, more sophisticated testing showed that the mitochondria in my cells no longer functioned correctly and there was damage to my autonomic nervous system; all functions not consciously directed, including heart rate, blood pressure, and digestion, had gone haywire. The drug that had previously helped now caused dangerous side effects; it would soon be removed from the market.
When the body is rendered useless, the mind still runs like a bloodhound along well-worn trails of neurons, tracking the echoing questions: the confused family of whys, whats, and whens and their impossibly distant kin how. The search is exhaustive; the answers, elusive. Sometimes my mind went blank and listless; at other times it was flooded with storms of thought, unspeakable sadness, and intolerable loss.
Given the ease with which health infuses life with meaning and purpose, it is shocking how swiftly illness steals away those certainties. It was all I could do to get through each moment, and each moment felt like an endless hour, yet days slipped silently past. Time unused and only endured still vanishes, as if time itself is starving, and each day is swallowed whole, leaving no crumbs, no memory, no trace at all.
I had been moved to a studio apartment where I could receive the care I needed. My own farmhouse, some fifty miles away, was closed up. I did not know if or when I'd ever make it home again. For now, my only way back was to close my eyes and remember. I could see the early spring there, the purple field violets - like those at my bedside - running rampant through the yard. And the fragrant small pink violets that I had planted in the little woodland garden to the north of my house - they, too, would be in bloom. Though not usually hardy this far north, somehow they survived. In my mind I could smell their sweetness.
Before my illness, my dog, Brandy, and I had often wandered the acres of forest that stretched beyond the house to a hidden, mountain-fed brook. The brook's song of weather and season followed us as we crisscrossed its channel over partially submerged boulders. On the trail home, in the boggiest of spots, perched on tiny islands of root and moss, I found diminutive wild white violets, their throats faintly striped with purple.
These field violets in the pot at my bedside were fresh and full of life, unlike the usual cut flowers brought by other friends. Those lasted just a few days, leaving murky, odoriferous vase water. In my twenties I had earned my living as a gardener, so I was glad to have this bit of garden right by my bed. I could even water the violets with my drinking glass.
But what about this snail? What would I do with it? As tiny as it was, it had been going about its day when it was picked up. What right did my friend and I have to disrupt its life? Though I couldn't imagine what kind of life a snail might lead.
I didn't remember ever having noticed any snails on my countless hikes in the woods. Perhaps, I thought, looking at the nondescript brown creature, it was precisely because they were so inconspicuous. For the rest of the day the snail stayed inside its shell, and I was too worn out from my friend's visit to give it another thought.
"...the snail had emerged from its shell into the alien territory of my room, with no clue as to where it was or how it had arrived; the lack of vegetation and the desertlike surroundings must have seemed strange. The snail and I were both living in altered landscapes not of our choosing; I figured we shared a sense of loss and displacement."
Elisabeth Tova Bailey was in her mid-thirties when struck with a mysterious illness that soon led to her complete incapacitation. Without knowing the cause, much less the cure or the course that it might take, the disease was a frightening visitor. One day, a friend stops by with a rather odd gift. A snail, from out in the yard. First placed in a flower pot and eventually a terrarium, the snail becomes Bailey's constant companion. Because of her lack of mobility and energy, much of her time was spent observing the creature.
You might think this would be dull, or worse, that you'd be stuck listening to someone bleakly describing their every physical complaint. Not so. This book has very little to do with health issues and far more to do with curiosity and resilience. Bailey is not a complainer, actual details of her health are few and without self-pity. She doesn't simply give up either, she makes clear she wants to fight this unknown assailant on her life. That she does so with the help of a small snail is astounding.
The first surprise is that snails have a daily routine. They have certain times to eat and sleep and travel. They often return to the same place to sleep, and they sleep on their side. (!!!) As she watches the daily activities of the snail, she manages to study research on snails in general and in detail. Turns out snail research is pretty deep...volumes have been written on every tiny detail. As in: snails have teeth, 2200+ of them! Seriously, if they were bigger you'd think twice about stepping on one. They also have a special talent for when the going gets tough in their little world: they start a process called estivation. It's not hibernation (they do that too!) but instead it allows them to become dormant when the weather goes bad, or they lose their preferred food source, etc. Some snails have been known to estivate more than a few years. The process of sealing off their little shell is fascinating, and a study in insulation.
Then there's the romance. Researchers have studied that too, and I won't go into too much detail, but let's just say lady snails are not complaining about romance in their life! Male snails really knock themselves out on the charm aspect. So much of the research that is out there is fascinating, and Bailey sorts through it and shares the most interesting details. This isn't just a science project for her, she sees parallels in her condition as well as the snail's. Illness took her out of her social circle, and her life seemed slow and inconsequential. And snails usually are a typical example of slow and inconsequential living:
"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 documented more by my absence than by my presence. While close friends understood my situation, those who didn't know me well found my disappearance from work and social circles inexplicable."
6 out of 7 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.Anonymous
Posted June 18, 2012
This is unlike anything I have read before. At first description I thought it might be odd but I like unusual things and decided to take a chance on reading this. It has bound me to it's pages! Being familiar with ill health, I can identify with the author's frustration at not being able to move from her bed. When she begins to care for a snail that was brought to her by a friend, the story takes on a very sweet aspect. I don't think I will ever see a snail again without thinking of this account. I am halfway through the book. I read a few pages at night and it is very interesting and soothing to contemplate the relationship between living things. This will be on my list of favorites to read again.
3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.AudreyCooper
Posted July 14, 2012
I bought this book because of its title. I work in a greenhouse and am a little sentimental about the various creatures that are often called pests. Snails, especially, intrigue me. This book really is about snails and there is a great deal of information about the complex little mollusks. But it is also a memoir by a women confined by illness to a small world and her struggles with chronic fatigue syndrome. It is a soothing narrative and one that I recommend highly to anyone who wants a relaxing read about an animal we rarely think about, or befriend.
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.It's hard to imagine how one would live life if severely challenged by a devastating illness. But this book shares one woman's experience and how she found meaning and even joy in a pot of violets and a little wild snail (or two or three). This is a very satisfying read.
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
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Posted May 5, 2011
Through illness, the author finds herself in possession of the time and pace to be able to observe in great detail the life and habits of a snail, and individual who, as her only true companion and connection to the world, sustains her through the worst of her illness. She peppers the text with beautiful spare poetry featuring snails, and with observations and writings of naturalists and snail specialists, including fascinating scientific tidbits of snail biology, life cycle, and evolution. A beautiful and lyrically written short work that expresses reverence for life along with rigorous science and meticulously documented references for further reading and enjoyment. Slow down the pace of your life and revel in this short introduction to an entirely new and foreign world - that of a snail.
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.I usually read WWII history, but the title grabbed me. A great relaxing read. Read and enjoy.
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
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Posted November 9, 2012
SNAILS ARE AWESOME.
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Posted September 24, 2012
Go to butterfly result twenty three
0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.
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Posted August 22, 2012
I loved this book! I was intrigued by the title even though I had no prior interest in snails. It did not disappoint and was a very quick read...
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Posted July 13, 2012
This was a great book. U should also try the promise by christina reklaitis
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.idajo2
Posted January 6, 2012
Elisabeth Tova Bailey's The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating is rife with finespun, and fascinating, detail about a "white-lipped forest snail" and its person. The small snail captured my heart from the moment s/he munched on a withered purple flower petal! I saw the snail as a lifesaver during the long days and nights the author struggled to come to terms with her devastating and debilitating illness. For those of us who love this book, the snail might well be described as a lifeSAVOR. The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating changed my perception of gastropods ~ forever. I will never view snails in the same light again nor will I ever intentionally harm a snail!
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Posted December 10, 2011
Delightful story of survival and resilience. Mesmerizing descriptions of the life of a wild snail that became a lifeline and true friend. My new favorite book. I use the author's website video of the snail to make me relax and it helps me find a calm place within myself.
Love this book.
Anonymous
Posted November 9, 2011
This was a beautifully written book.It also imparts so much knowledge over some thing that we see so often but know nothing about. High Recommended.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.VC31
Posted March 23, 2011
An easy, beautifully written read. The attention to detail that the author provides is astonishing. A must read, especially for the nature lovers!
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.Wessagusset
Posted February 9, 2011
The research that went into this book is astounding. The right kind of reader will want to delve further into the science Elisabeth Tova Bailey reveals in her book. What a tribute to the spirit of this courageous woman. I look forward to reading more of her work. It is rare that a writer can appeal to the intellect and touch the heart as well.
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Posted January 26, 2011
reflective and elegant memoir-
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.gs0429
Posted January 16, 2011
Thought I was going to learn something about perserverence or character; not the anatomy and life of snails. Totally not what I expected.
0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.
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Posted February 2, 2011
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Posted July 17, 2011
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Posted August 21, 2011
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Overview
While an illness keeps her bedridden, Bailey watches a wild snail that has taken up residence on her nightstand. As a result, she discovers the solace and sense...