Do NOT read Wendell Berry!

Or else! Angelina Stanford confesses:

I am a bona fide city girl. I don’t like being outside. I don’t like animals. And I don’t want to know where my food comes from. As far as I am concerned the boneless skinless chicken breast is the ultimate expression of the triumph of modernity. At least that all used to be true of me.

I am only one generation away from a line of farmers that stretch back to ancient times. That changed when my father moved to the city, became a professional and passed all of his disdain of rural life and its presumed intellectual backwardness to me. I was an excellent disciple.

And yet, here I am, all these years later, daydreaming about living on a farm and plotting out my latest agrarian endeavor—raising live chickens. What happened? Wendell Berry happened.

Read the whole thing. It’s really true. Wendell Berry is dangerous. In a good way. Best to stay away from his work, if you don’t want to risk being profoundly changed.

By the way, you might consider going to this Kentucky conference in July. It’s honoring Wendell Berry, but will also be about classical homeschooling. I do believe Mrs. Dreher will abandon her little chickens here in St. Francisville for these days, and head on up for this thing.