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the flight of a bee eater over these feathery trees, maybe some kind of larch, dangling with nests, is immediately recognisable: the shape of wings sloping back, the fast fluttering and twisting flight - as distinctive in its way as the nightjar, you think, looking up from reading Meillasoux, as *any* flight, or *any* movement, you think -
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the habitus of any bird or animal or plant, or fungus, acquired at once by the most casual and the most intense prolonged and regular contact and observation - so it becomes really an extension, a region of the imagination, which the flying bird can instantly discharge - so the networks of our feeling are suddenly flooded with activity, bringing us back from a state close to ..