And Her Soul Out Of Nothing

Father’s Famous Devastation

Father's Famous Devastation Father was a Swedenborgian, but he kept his sense of humor. Taught us that what mattered was contained in just another pleasant afternoon near Windsor Park, the stewed rabbit gently seared and swallowed. In the summer sky a brown thrasher, a tussock moth in the summer trees, and his two sons. But the Swedenborgian truth of the matter is that it's about to hit. I'm just letting him sit there a while longer, but we all know what's going to happen: first that vague something settling just above his eyes, like a brown thrasher, a tussock moth, but on the inside of his head. Let's let him loosen his tie, but there's something not quite right about his fingers, the knot in his tie, his waistcoat, why is he wearing it? And it comes over him, it descends and the afternoon doesn't exist, only the nausea of nothing as he almost raises his hands to stop it. And his sons, and his daughter, and his wife. He will not get over this for months. He will suffer a periodic recurrence for the rest of his life. Henry and I will try not to mention it in our letters. Instead, I will offer: "the soul is merely the sum of our mental life." And he will answer, "you could be right." ...