Watership Down (Scribner Classics)

1) "Fu Inlé means 'after moonrise.' Rabbits, of course, have no idea of precise time or of punctuality. In this respect they are much the same as primitive people, who often take several days over assembling for some purpose and then several more to get started. Before such people can act together, a kind of telepathic feeling has to flow through them and ripen to the point when they all know that they are ready to begin. Anyone who has seen the martins and swallows in September, assembling on the telephone wires, twittering, making short flights singly and in groups over the open, stubbly fields, returning to form longer and even longer lines above the yellowing verges of the lanes—the hundreds of individual birds merging and blending, in a mounting excitement, into swarms, and these swarms coming loosely and untidily together to create a great, unorganized flock, thick at the center and ragged at the edges, which breaks and re-forms continually like clouds or waves—until that moment when the greater part (but not all) of them know that the time has come: they are off, and have begun once more that great southward flight which many will not survive; anyone seeing this has seen at work the current that flows (among creatures who think of themselves primarily as part of a group and only secondarily, if at all, as individuals) to fuse them together and impel them into action without conscious thought or will: has seen at work the angel which drove the First Crusade into Antioch and drives the lemmings into the sea."

2) "'Are you sure we've got to cross the river, Fiver? What about going along the bank one way or the other?'

'No, we need to cross the river, Hazel, so that we can get into those fields—and on beyond them too. I know what we ought to be looking for—a high, lonely place with dry soil, where rabbits can see and hear all round and men hardly ever come. Wouldn't that be worth a journey?'

'Yes, of course it would. But is there such a place?'"

3) "'I don't like straight lines: men make them.'"

4) "'Hrairoo,' said Hazel one evening, 'what would we have done without you? We'd none of us be here, would we?'

'You're sure we are here, then?' asked Fiver.

'That's too mysterious for me,' replied Hazel. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, there's another place—another country, isn't there? We go there when we sleep; at other times, too; and when we die. El-ahrairah comes and goes between the two as he wants, I suppose, but I could never quite make that out, from the tales. Some rabbits will tell you it's all easy there, compared with the waking dangers that they understand. But I think that only shows they don't know much about it. It's a wild place, and very unsafe. And where are we really—there or here?'"

5) "Great stretches of the long grass, once the teeming jungle of summer, were almost deserted, with only a hurrying beetle or a torpid spider left out of all the myriads of August. The gnats still danced in the bright air, but the swifts that had swooped for them were gone and instead of their screaming cries in the sky, the twittering of a robin sounded from the top of a spindle tree. The fields below the hill were all cleared. One had already been plowed and the polished edges of the furrows caught the light with a dull glint, conspicuous from the ridge above. The sky, too, was void, with a thin clarity like that of water. In July the still blue, thick as cream, had seemed close above the green trees, but now the blue was high and rare, the sun slipped sooner to the west and, once there, foretold a touch of frost, sinking slow and big and drowsy, crimson as the rose hips that covered the briar. As the wind freshened from the south, the red and yellow beech leaves rasped together with a brittle sound, harsher than the fluid rustle of earlier days. It was a time of quiet departures, of the sifting away of all that was not staunch against winter."

Here is a boy who was waiting to be punished. But then, unexpectedly, he finds that his fault has been overlooked or forgiven and at once the world reappears in brilliant colours, full of delightful prospects. Here is a soldier who was waiting, with a heavy heart, to suffer and die in battle. But suddenly the luck has changed. There is news! The war is over and everyone bursts out singing! He will go home after all!

This was, unexpectedly, a perfect book for the time - that might be have been true at any moment since it was published, but it feels especially so now. The reluctant leader, the determined dreamer, the moral warrior, the brutal tyrant; I'm so happy to have read this in the context of current events, but also as an antidote to them. I highly recommend for any age (except small children, there are some frightening bits).Of some note: I listened to the audiobook read by Ralph Cosham, and he was a terrific narrator in unexpected ways. I had a look at the printed version and discovered that some of his pronunciations were different than I'd have guessed. Nevertheless, the prose came to life.

Rabbits have enough enemies as it is. They ought not to make more among themselves.

I have never read Watership Down before. This seems like such a perfect story to read in High School but somehow I missed out. I am grateful that I read this on my volition because I appreciated the story more than I would have if it was an assignment. This is a classic story and worth of the accolades it has received.

Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.

This story sneaks up on you, it starts with cute bunnies but somewhere in the middle I wasn't reading them as bunnies but characters in a life or death struggle. I became invested in them, their unique personalities and story of survival.

This is disguised as a children's book but it's anything but. Intentional or not, as the story continued I was seeing this as a very heavy and serious allegory that went beyond cute rabbits.

Being a fan of the TV show LOST I was finally able to appreciate a quote Sawyer had in season one about the story: Hell of a book... It's about bunnies. There was nothing unintentional about LOST and the choice of Watership Down was a subtle nod to the past and upcoming struggles that the Oceanic 815 survivors would have on the island.

After finishing "Watership Down" by Richard Adams, I immediately regretted that I did not read the book as a child. It is quite unlike anything that I have ever read. Adams found a way of making what is on the surface a very simple story which is deeply entertaining and though-provoking at the same time. Like the best children's literature, it can be read on multiple levels and does not shy away from the darker aspects of life and living.

Heavily influenced by Virgil's "Aeneid," the story follows a group of rabbits in rural England who escape from their warren when one has a premonition that their home is about to be destroyed. Adams describes the countryside in beautiful, well-drawn portraits that shows a deep love for the land. But what makes the novel stand out is the creation of a mythical world surrounding the rabbits, from language to culture to religion and legends.

"Watership Down" embodies the essential quality of influential world literature: the ability to create a highly-detailed world that can tell a universal story that resonates across cultures. It is the balancing of the quotidian and the universal that makes truly great literature. "Watership Down" is a beautifully-written novel that deserves its place as one of the 20th centuries best fantasies.

I don't normally wait several months to write a review — typically, either I write it right away, or I don't write one at all (or, at least not until I re-read it again). But I'm making an exception this time, firstly, because Watership is an exceptional book, but also because I've had some thoughts hopping around (yuk, yuk) in my head for awhile.

With any book that makes strong allusions to classical works, as Watership does, there's a strong compulsion to point out those allusions one notices. Traces and more-than-traces of works like Aeneid and Odyssey thread their way through the story, as do other references. I caught some of them, probably missed a bunch more. Others have done that sort of thing better than I ever could, so I will neither bore you with pointing out the allusions I noticed, nor embarrass myself by failing to note the ones I missed.

Looking at the story on its own merits, however, one particular repeated theme throughout the book is that of possibility. From Hazel's leadership to Bigwig's stubbornness to El-ahrairah's clever manipulations, the rabbits must learn the limits of their capabilities with each new challenge that crops up — or that they seek out.

To be sure, I am distinguishing possibility from potentiality. Potential is something that could happen, given the right circumstances, will and motivations. In effect, potential relies on probabilities, specifically the kind that can be calculated and bet upon. Could a group of rabbits survive a nighttime foray through hostile woods and rifle-toting man-guarded fields? Likely not, but who really knows? Potential is rhetorical, a question, and therefore, meaningless.

Possibility, however, is fact. Either something is possible, or it isn't, and the only way to know which it is, is to accomplish it. Hazel leads the rabbits on their overnight trek, and when it is done, they have seen what is possible. Likewise, Bigwig can only know whether he is able to stand against Woundwort and the Efrafans by, of course, standing against them. Potential doesn't matter; only what is possible matters.

This is not to say that deliberation is never useful, or that one should do things without considering the consequences. But for the rabbits of the Down, such deliberation is short and, for the most part, deals with the details of how, not whether, to do something: Hazel listens, then leads. Neither is it to say that all things are possible. Failures happen, and rabbits die in the attempt.

But it's the ones who languish, the ones who fail to learn what is possible for them, that have it the worst. Those who remain in Sandleford warren despite Fiver's predictions of destruction die climactically; the laconic rabbits of Cowslip's warren die more slowly, but just as surely; the Efrafans have little more than a living death, and then they die.

Ultimately, it is achievement, the discovery what is possible, which spurs others to do their own great things. El-ahrairah, the Prince with a Thousand Enemies, is also the Prince of a Thousand Deeds, for with his cunning wit, he has outdone each of those enemies. And as Hazel's deeds are attributed to El-ahrairah at the end, it is understood that all of the feats of heroes past are not merely stories but reports, accounts of achievement rather than fantastical tales. If they seem impossible, it is only because we have not done them yet — and we will never know whether they are possible until we do.