The Contraryness of the Mad Farmer, written and read by Wendell Berry.

I am done with apologies.

If contrariness is my inheritance and destiny, so be it.

If it is my mission to go in at exits and come out at entrances, so be it.

I have planted by the stars in defiance of the experts,

and tilled somewhat by incantation and by singing,

and reaped as I knew by luck and heaven's favor in spite of the best advice.

If I have been caught so often laughing at funerals,

that was because I knew the dead were already slipping away,

preparing a comeback, and can I help it?

And if at weddings I have gritted and nashed my teeth,

that was because I knew where the bridegroom had sunk his manhood,

and knew it would not be resurrected by a piece of cake.

Dance they told me, and I stood still,

and while they stood quiet in line at the gate of the kingdom, I danced.

Pray they said, and I laughed, covering myself in the earth's brightnesses,

and then stole off gray into the midst of a revel and prayed like an orphan.

When they said, I know that my Redeemer liveth, I told them he's dead,

and when they told me God is dead, I answered,

he goes fishing every day in the Kentucky River, I see him often.

When they asked me what I like to contribute, I said no.

And when they had collected more than they needed,

...