Suddenly Roger began to recite Milton’s sonnet on his blindness: “‘When I consider how my light is spent / Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide …’” I don’t remember how far he got before he choked up and couldn’t go on, but that didn’t matter. Neither of us would have been very receptive to the bullshit about bearing God’s “mild yoke.” But I can’t ever forget the moment, looking out at all the sunset yuppies and their dogs while Roger declaimed his loss in a broken voice.
