2005-02-13 - 4:25 p.m.
I was falling asleep on my feet when he asked me if I had ever heard of the Tibetan Book of The Dead, which I had, of course, from him.
He asked, "Do you read anything besides fiction?" Pictures of my Bible study, the book of Franciscan Prayer, of Kierkegaard and biographies of Catholic writers waltzed though my mind and I hesitated before saying, "No." The latest short story by Mark Helprin was freshly imprinted on my heart, as much a part of my life as the ground I stood upon, perhaps more so. Some say that fiction is much more real than real life. I wanted to shout this as he brushed aside my taste in literature as immature. "O well you're only twenty-three."
"Do you ever like to read anything heavy?" He was asking to invite me to read one his books to "tickle" my brain, in a way I did not want to be tickled. He was asking me to talk to him in his selfish language and I groaned.
When I inherit I will delight in attacking the case of his special books, piling them into brown paper bags and leaving them with the nearest used book store, that is, if I do not burn them first. I will burn the barrier between myself and my father.
