And nature is a fan dancer born with a fan; you can wrestle her down, throw her on the stage and grapple with her for the fan with all your might, but it will never quit her grip. She comes that way; the fan is attached.
Dillard is talking about the unpredictability of human beings. No matter what you do, how you try to control the fan dancer, she will never give up her vocation. The fan is in her hand, the dance will go on.
Tonight, my son decided to take a bottle of nail polish and paint pictures on the side of my parents' house. That's right. Ruby red cave drawings right on the siding. No matter how much nail polish remover I used, I simply couldn't erase it all. It looks like a palimpsest scroll--my son's hieroglyphs still visible.
I don't know what to say. My son can't explain why he did it. He just starts crying when I ask him about it. So, I will simply have to chalk it up to youth and stupidity.
And Saint Marty's fingers still smell like acetone.