I assume Alexander Selkirk kept the lambs in some kind of fold, and that the point was that even in that confined space he did not have to struggle too much to get at one of them and kill it, because they were handicapped so to speak – because he had broken their legs. Gruesome in one manner, if you can forget our own slaughter-houses for a moment. But on the other hand understandable, if you get a tropical fever and barely can get up, and you have dehydrated and shit all over the dried leaves that make out your bed.
There is a strange fascination and yet revulsion with this little bit of story, but at the heart of it is a lesson, about what life is if you take away any kind of help from the outside.
There’s the story, then. Which makes me feel revolted and grateful at the same time. I guess I should remember the gratefulness the most.