“‘Hold still, goddam it,’ said Lawrence, laughing, watching Howard’s face from the side, finally closing his hand on the shirt, making the hornet crackle as hard and dry as an old match box when he clenched his fist.
“And then Lawrence had it out, in his hand, and they were both bent over in looking. It was dead now, wadded and broken, and in the shade of his hand, the gold of the hornet had become as ugly-colored as the phosphorus dial at noon. It was the stinger, sticking out like a wire hair, taut in an electric quaver, that still lived.”
—Terry Southern, from “South’s Summer Idyll”
Art Credit Sol LeWitt, Ten Thousand Lines About 5” Long, 1971