A hunter with his crossbow killed a deer. A fawn was passing by; he shot that too.
A not-bad booty here was bagged—or so would think less bloodthirsty a hunter. But there then appeared a massive boar, a plump and luscious boar; again he nocked, and aimed, and fired.
The boar was downed, but not quite dead.
Now surely this was game enough? Not so! A conquerer’s vast thirst for conquest is by conquest only whetted, never slaked. The archer saw a partridge—puny prey beside what he’d already killed—and thought to have that too.
The boar, collecting all its life’s last strength, now vengeful charged, and, dying, gored to death its own death’s cause. (The partridge gasped and sighed in fright and simultaneous relief.)
A wolf then came upon the site of slaughter, and rejoiced.
“What riches these! Here’s one, two, three, uh, four! fresh carcasses. O Fortune! I will build a temple in your name! —Such plenty, though,” he mused, “is rare. I’ll not be wasteful; I’ll economize.” (So muse all misers.) “This much food should last a month, that’s seven into thirty-one is six, no, seven, five? no, three, no, four! remainder two, no, four—well, never mind; it’s one big meal a week. I’ll start on Tuesday. Till then, I can subsist by gnawing on this bowstring: it’s authentic gut.”
He pounced upon the crossbow hungrily. Alas, it fired: the arrow into his guts sprang.
How many times am I required to say it in this book? Be not insatiate, and be not stingy neither. Just enjoy.
“I will,” you say. —Oh? When? —“Tomorrow I’ll begin.”
A start today I advocate—or share the wolf’s or share the hunter’s fate.