I'm thick in research and reading a book called Social Life in the Insect World by J. H. Fabre, who is a hoot of an observational academic, and published in New York in 1918.
There's a meditative mysticism to his writings: it often happens, especially during the hours of the sultry afternoons, that the insect, intoxicated wtih sun light, shortens and even suppresses the intervals of silence. The song is then continuous, but always with an alteration of crescendo and diminuendo. The concert lasts a whole round of the clock. But if the sky is grey and the wind chilly the Cigale is silent.
Two of the strangest bits in the book involve dead insects and the vigor of the physical self until full evisceration. Read on.
Take a Cigale but newly dead and make it sing. Nothing is simpler. Seize one of the muscular columns with the forceps and pull it in a series of careful jerks. The extint cri-cri comes to life again; at each jerk there is a clash of the cymbal.
Regarding the female Praying Mantis after copulation: during the day, or latest on the morrow, he is seized by his companion, who first gnaws through the back of his neck, aaccording to use and wont, and then methodically devours him, mouthful by mouthful, leaving only the wings. Here we have no case of jealousy, but simply a depraved taste.
Fabre brings in a second male and introduces it to the newly fecundated female. He writes, the result of my inquiry was scandalous. The Mantis is never sated with embraces and conjugal feasts. After a rest, whether the eggs have been laid or not, second male is welcomed nd devoured like the first. A third succeeds him, does his duty, and affords yet another meal. A fourth suffers a like fate. In the course of two weeks, I have seen the same Mantis treat seven husbands in this fashion. She admitted all to her embraces, and all paid for the nuptial ecstasy with their lives. There are exceptions, but such orgies are frequent, he notes.
It is clear his research took a toll on poor scientist Fabre: I have worn myself out in trying to procure the indispensable complements to my female specimans. For I once surprised a male, apparently in the performance of his vital functions, holding the female tightly embraced - but he had no head, no neck, scarcely any thorax! The female, her head turned over her shoulder, was peacefully browsing on the remains of her lover! And the masculine remnant, firmly anchored, continued its duty!
I love this book. It's pure poetry.
