At The Best Of Times,

He Was Prepared To Die For It, As One Of Baudelaire's Dandies Might Have Been Prepared To Kill Himself In Order To Preserve Himself In The Condition Of A Work Of Art, For He Wanted To Make This Experience A Masterpiece Of Experience Which Absolutely Transcended The Everyday. And This Would Annihilate The Effects Of The Cruel Drug, Boredom, To Which He Was Addicted Although, Perhaps, The Element Of Boredom Which Is Implicit In An Affair So Isolated From The Real World Was Its Principle Appeal For Him.

As For My Father, Few Souls Are Less Troubled. He Can Be Simply Pleased With Us, Pleased That We Exist, And, From The Vantage Point Of His Wondrously Serene Old Age, He Contemplates Our Lives Almost As If They Were Books He Can Dip Into Whenever He Wants. His Back Pages, Perhaps.

I Know That Whenever A Group Of Women Are Gathered Together, The Grandmother Always Makes A Phantom Appearance, Hovering Above Them.

A Mother Is Always A Mother, Since A Mother Is A Biological Fact, Whilst A Father Is A Movable Feast.

Losing Their Names, These Things Underwent A Process Of Uncreation.