When I’m feeling sick and mostly brain-dead, I turn to one of two kinds
of book: either a rather shallow series that I can chain-read without
much effort, or an old favorite that I know so well that reading it is
more likely reminiscing with a friend. Watership Down is
one of the latter. I first read it when I was in junior high school (what
they call “middle school” around here these days), and the copy I have now
I got in England when I was 14. I was on a trip with my parents; it’s
the only time I’ve ever been to Europe. I’ve got copies of
James Herriot’s first four books from that trip as well,
though you likely wouldn’t recognize the titles–they were repackaged for
American publication as All Creatures Great And Small and
All Things Bright And Beautiful.

But I digress.

Are any of my readers unfamiliar with Watership Down? It’s
a tale of adventure and romance, of resourcefulness and steadfastness, of
courage and honor and integrity, of causes and things worth fighting for,
of grace under pressure.

And, of course, it’s about rabbits. Not country bumpkins in rabbit-form,
not talking beasts with waistcoats and pocketwatches, but rabbits. Real
rabbits, with the concerns, problems, and enemies of rabbits. They talk,
certainly, and tell stories, and they are a degree smarter than real
rabbits, but they remain rabbits. They do not build towns or plant
gardens or write books; instead, they dig warrens and eat grass and bear young
and keep a watchful eye for the thousand enemies that beset them.

It’s a remarkable achievement, and I don’t believe it has ever been
matched. The closest book I can think of is William Horwood’s
Duncton Wood, which seems clearly patterned
after Watership Down (it was published eight years later).
It’s about moles, who at first mostly seem to have the concerns of moles;
there’s even a General Woundwort figure named Mandrake (of all things).
But as the book progresses it emerges that these moles aren’t real moles.
Some of them write books; and there are even pseudo-Buddhist enlightened
monk moles. In other words, Watership Down is a mainstream
novel that appeals to lovers of fantasy, Duncton Wood is
unequivocally a fantasy novel whose characters happen to be moles.

In any event, I re-read the book with great pleasure; and the ending
has become only more moving with time and familiarity rather than less.
I always have to have a box of kleenex handy for the last ten pages or so.
Fortunately, given that I’m sick no one’s surprised that my eyes are
watering.