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That virtually no teenager I knew read books outside of school wasn’t, admittedly, a tragedy, though it did make me worry in a nebulous way.
Even if it takes a month to get through a novel, the ritual still anchors me, the access to lives I’ll never live.
“Do you know what I do sometimes when it’s time for me to sleep and my mind is thinking about things? I imagine a shoebox with the word ‘Tomorrow’ on the top of it, and I imagine writing what I’m worried about on a piece of paper and setting it inside the box. That way, I can think about it tomorrow, and in the meantime I can relax and go to sleep.”
He hugged me for about five seconds longer than felt necessary—there’s a type of man who does this, seemingly to demonstrate that he’s comfortable doing so—then
“For what this is worth,” I said, “I’m Waspy in the technical sense, but I don’t come from a lot of money. I’m a swamp Yankee.”
The older I get, the less I try to pass judgment.”
What, I wondered, is an enviable life? What is a purposeful life?
I’m too old and too white and too male to be a desirable hire at other schools.
