I must admit that I do not like insects. I try to avoid them as much as possible, not only by swatting away at any fly I see, but also by pushing aside unread most writing on insects. There seem to be two reasons for my aversion. One is early memories of my mother on cricket patrol on summer evenings. Insects were something to be crushed if they dared venture inside the house. Spiders, worms and everything else classified as creepy crawlies received the same treatment-rapid extermination. It never dawned on me that some people thought of caterpillars as beautiful or spent hours observing the behavior of beetles. Nor did my estimation of invertebrates in general improve when I became a biology major. Invertebrates were disgusting rather than interesting organisms since they were usually presented as pickled specimens floating, and often decomposing, in foul-smelling fluid. To make them even more distasteful, they were used merely as problems in classification. What organisms had radical versus bilateral symmetry? What differentiated arachnids from arthropods, or roundworms from flatworms? But even as inveterate an invertebrate hater as myself cannot avoid sixlegged creatures completely. Insects are everywhere, abundant both in quantity and variety. As John Alcock has written: When you consider that there are several million species of insects, each wonderfully distinctive, and fewer than 10,000 species of birds, it is strange that there are millions of bird watchers but only thousands of insect enthusiasts. It occurred to me recently that among this relatively small band of enthusiasts are a large number of good writers, too good for even me to resist. Bernd Heinrich's In a Patch of Fireweed (1984), Karl von Frisch's Bees (1950), and Edward 0. Wilson's The Insect Societies (1971) immediately come to mind. But above them all stand two books which I found tremendously fascinating, and which changed my perception of insects. They are a collection of the writings of J. Henri Fabre, edited by Edwin Way Teale (1949), and Howard Ensign Evans's Life on a Little-known Planet (1984). These books have not made me love insects-just yesterday I crushed a beetle that crawled up my arm, rather than trying to classify it or observe its behavior. But these books have given me an appreciation for such creatures, at least on an intellectual level. From now on, when I discuss insects in class it will be less out of a sense of duty and more with a sense of wonder. The writings of Fabre and Evans are very different from each other. Though they both dedicated their lives