Calypso

Who does this—goes to the shows of people they’re supposed to be proud of and counts the empty seats?

What can I do to make him like me? I used to wonder. The harder I tried to mold myself into the sort of son I thought he wanted, the more contemptuous he became, and so eventually I quit trying and founded the opposition party, which I still lead to this day. Whatever he’s for, I’m against. Almost.

I’m not sure how it is in small families, but in large ones relationships tend to shift over time.

the best thing you can do for the poor is avoid joining their ranks, thus competing with them for limited goods and services.

“The secret to Dad’s longevity isn’t diet or exercise, or even his genes,” I’ve often said to Paul and my sisters. “He’s just late for death, the way he’s been late for everything else all his life.”

The times I miss her most are when I see something she might have liked: a piece of jewelry or a painting. The view of a white sand beach off a balcony. Palm trees. How I’d have loved to spoil her with beautiful things.

I want to laugh. Then I want him to laugh and say, “Just kidding!” But he honestly believes all this and is frustrated that I won’t believe it as well. “Wake up!” he says.

I’m not saying you should dwell solely on the negative, but why blot it out entirely, especially in a social setting where it’s practically your duty to spark debate and lively conversation?

“Oh, now, she didn’t say that!”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because it’s prejudiced.”
“Of course it is, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t say it.”

“You will grow up to be a terrible person,” I told her. “I mean, more terrible than you are now. If that’s even possible.”