We are in Awe of the Cone Snail, by Charles Freeland

We are in awe of the cone snail. Once we’ve been informed of just how poisonous it is. But we are not likely to fear it for the simple reason that it doesn’t live anywhere near us. At least those of us who prefer the continent to those places where the continent disappears into the surf. It’s precisely this desire to visit exotic locales that gets us in trouble in the first place. Those who are familiar with something know what they should watch out for, where the trouble lurks. They’ve seen it, if not every day, then every other day. Either in the flesh or in the mind by virtue of the stories that get told about it. But those of us who happen along once a year – when the weather has turned unpleasant at home and the boss is inclined to drink too much or holler your name when the least little thing goes wrong – we stumble upon disaster the way someone might find a manuscript. Ostensibly by Gautier. In a bank vault or at a garage sale. Among the paper flowers and maternity clothes. And recognize right away it is a forgery. Something thrown together by desperate thieves and con men. And yet, he snaps it up anyway. Because he suspects no one else can spot the difference. No one else will recognize the recent ink. The French that sounds like it belongs in the mouth of Brigette Bardot.