. . . I remember your college admissions interview. Your interviewer came to Alexandria, you met at the Starbucks at the end of King Street, beside the river. It was early summer, a lovely day, at the end of the garden the two of you were sitting at a table, I was at another. The distance between us was not great, so I could hear your conversation, not all of it, but I strained to hear as much as I could, and then came the moment when you said to that stranger: “My father is a writer and I want to distance myself from his interests, I want the two of us to be different and I’m not interested in literature!” I think I understood your reasons then, as I understand them now. The difference is that then your announcement (“I’m not interested in literature!”) hurt me, but now I remember it all with a certain pleasure and sympathy for the you who perhaps didn’t yet know what you wanted, but you evidently knew what you didn’t want.My Heart, p. 91
Self is very, very surprised at what this book is turning out to be. No one ever said it was about the son.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.