When a male spreads his
plumage to interest a female, he also quivers the smaller fan of brown feathers
beneath the more conspicuous iridescent quills. This produces a sound like wind
in dry leaves. Their call is from the soundtrack of a Tarzan movie. With its
flower-like crest and shimmering blue and blue-green feathers, they’re decked
out for Mardi Gras. Like butterflies, they are gratuitously beautiful. They are
profligate with their beauty, almost vulgar. Their beauty exceeds necessity (please spare me your dull evolutionary
explanations), and could not be designed by humans. Flannery O’Connor, of
course, raised peacock at her home, Andalusia, in Millidgeville, Ga. Read her wonderful
essay “Living with a Peacock,” first published in Holiday magazine in 1961, and revised and retitled “The King of the
Birds” in Mystery and Manners: Occasional
Prose (1969). Here’s a sample that
won’t surprise anyone familiar with O’Connor’s fiction:
“When
the peacock has presented his back, the spectator will usually begin to walk
around him to get a front view; but the peacock will continue to turn so that
no front view is possible. The thing to do then is to stand still and wait
until it pleases him to turn. When it suits him, the peacock will face you.
Then you will see in a green-bronze arch around him a galaxy of gazing haloed
suns. This is the moment when most people are silent.”
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