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Richard Adams writes such incredible prose. I want to go out into the countryside and look at the plants and animals he describes. I'm deeply disappointed when his descriptions aren't fulfilled in the panoramic paintings every few pages in the book. I want to find the fruit and the flowers. I even want to swim in the October river, just once, or at least to have done so as a boy.
But why, Mr. Editor, oh why, did you allow the last sentence in the book, the last taste with which Adams sends us away, when we should have been begging for more, when we would have been begging for more, if only the last sentence had been about rabbits or swallows, why, oh why did you allow the last sentence to be about the cockroach?