Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?
Herman Melville, Moby Dick
“Am I an asshole?”
Lisa doesn’t answer right away, which might be answer enough. We’re sitting in Adirondack chairs at the formal firepit, feet up, drinking a good white wine in her case and a peasant red in mine. Her stemware could cut diamonds, mine could pound nails. I started the fire an hour earlier so it would be settled by the time we sat down.
“A bit of a curmudgeon, maybe.”
“Ouch. That’s how mommy calls grandpa an asshole in front of the kids.”
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Lisa holds a cracker with some stringy cheese with chopped walnuts and cranberry chutney on it. I know what she’s thinking; zombie goo. She shrugs and eats it anyway. Good spirit. I hold out my leg. She wipes and says thank you.
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