Henry was telling me about a book I had not read. It was Arthur Machen’s Hill of Dreams. I was listening, and suddenly he said, “I am talking almost paternally to you.” At that moment I knew Henry had perceived the part of me that is half child, the part of me who likes to be amazed, to be taught, to be guided. I became a child listening to Henry, and he became paternal. The haunting image of an erudite, literary father reasserted itself, and the woman became a child again.
