A History of the Imagination

Abstract

I was sailing to Cincinnati with the King of Belgium in his private steamship. (It is not an easy thing to sail to Cincinnati from Africa! you say, cynical as always. Though a river town, Cincinnati is far from the world's great oceans! Except in dreams, I say?in dreams Cincinnati is an easy sail from Africa, especially in such a ship as belongs to the King of All the Belgians with its wonderful featherbeds, its frequent cocktail hours announced by the ship's silver bell, its golden ropes and handsome sailors who speak, I suppose, Walloon.) I was accompanying the King to the funeral to be held later that day for the last passenger pigeon, which had died the day before in the Cincinnati Zoo. (You cannot travel from the Congo to Cincinnati in only a day! you shout, fit to be tied. Tut-tut! I say, not at all troubled by such questions of travel. For me, travel had become a thought.) We have a special fondness for pigeons, the King said as we stood at the rail and watched the whales rush through the ocean like loco motives. Pigeon racing is the national sport of Belgium, you I did not know.