Dad Is Always Hiding In His Book.

Planning To Write Is Not Writing. Outlining, Researching, Talking To People About What You're Doing, None Of That Is Writing. Writing Is Writing.

I Knew He Was Unreliable, But He Was Fun To Be With. He Was A Child’s Ideal Companion, Full Of Surprises And Happy Animal Energy. He Enjoyed Food And Drink. He Liked To Try New Things. He Brought Home Coconuts, Papayas, Mangoes, And Urged Them On Our Reluctant Conservative Selves. On Sundays He Liked To Discover New Places, Take Us On Endless Bus Or Trolley Rides To Some New Park Or Beach He Knew About. He Always Counseled Daring, In Whatever Situation, The Courage To Test The Unknown, An Instruction That Was Thematically In Opposition To My Mother’s.

I Did Have A Feeling Then That The Culture Of Factuality Was So Dominating That Storytelling Had Lost All Its Authority.

It Is The Immigrant Hordes Who Keep This Country Alive, The Waves Of Them Arriving Year After Year.... Who Believes In America More Than The People Who Run Down The Gangplank And Kiss The Ground?

The Voice Of The Constitution Is The Inescapably Solemn Self-consciousness Of The People Giving The Law Unto Themselves.