I could have been French if my father had only recognized me as his son, but instead he disavowed me, a disavowal that differed little from the forgetfulness that was the most important ingredient for enjoying foie gras, for if we could see how it was made, with a farmer force-feeding the poor goose with enormous amounts of grain through a funnel until its liver was about to burst, then perhaps we would not have such a taste for the delicacy, which, like many delicacies, was salted with misery.
