I’ve read a few, yes. There’s that old Norwegian tale of a beetle that steals a man’s breath, and a moth that, when it flutters into a candle, burns away a curse in a village. In a story I once shelved, a moth was the silent witness to a secret love letter hidden in a book, and the only thing that could outlast the ink was its feathery wings. I suppose the insects are quiet narrators of the hidden lives within the pages.