In the reservoir near my house, when winter comes, you can see some ice anglers, each one squatting in an old army overcoat. From a distance, they look like crows scattered in the snow. They crouch there as if time has stopped. They go there just so fish can breathe, under a single ray of light — the fish swim hesitantly up to the holes. The ice anglers’ ecstasy is to see living creatures thrash their tails in pain on ice, until blood seeps from their gills, staining red the piles of chiseled ice . . . These are the most frightening sights I can imagine — I turned away from that embankment; I tried to think it was just a chance encounter in my stroll.
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