I was just reading about the real Robinson Crusoe. He was this troublemaker that got kicked out of his hometown in Scotland and became a sailor in the Royal Navy and then on a trip off the coast of Chile, he started bitching about the ship and the conditions aboard and told the captain he wanted off and so they rowed him ashore with his sea chest, dropped him off, returned to the ship, and when they pulled up the dinghy and got ready to take off, Robinson Crusoe changed his mind and called to the captain, “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry!”

The captain called back, “That’s too goddamn bad! Fuck you!”

And off they went. Robinson Crusoe spent three months on the beach trying to stay awake, thinking that it had all been a bad dream and that they would come back for him. He lived on king crabs. Funny he didn’t develop gout or blow out his kidneys on that rich and monotonous diet.

When it dawned on Crusoe that they weren’t going to come back, he moved inland and made a hut for himself. He became self-sufficient and industrious out of necessity, and learned to take a special pleasure in doing things patiently and well. There were goats on the island, coconuts, pineapples, fish, edible tubers, breadfruit, etc. Also, Crusoe had a splendid view. In a way it was a kind of tropical paradise. By and by Robinson Crusoe captured a number of goats and cut their Achilles’ tendons to keep them near his shack. Rats were a problem and often bit his toes to the bone as he slept, but he found some wild cats, stole some kittens, raised them, and trained them to sleep with him and kill the rats. This formerly bitter, angry man was said to have come close to God and learned to love Him. Living on pure foods, breathing fresh air, taking in sunshine and the tranquil sound of the surf, he became more healthy and his sense of hearing and eyesight became remarkably keen.

He became a prime physical specimen. He could run a goat down, pounce on it, and slit its throat with his dirk knife. Once, he jumped on a goat that was feeding on the edge of a thirty-foot precipice obscured by dense brush. They both went over and Crusoe, although he landed on the goat, killing it, was so injured himself that he could not move for three days. When he recovered and went back to his hut, the idea of his old age and inevitable helplessness became an idée fixe. Portuguese sailors often stopped at the island for food and water, but to reveal himself to them, he knew, would amount to suicide. If they didn’t kill him, they would literally make him a galley slave.

Eventually an English ship laid anchor near his island and he went down to greet them in his beard and goatskins and was rescued. What a tale he had to tell.