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304 pages, Hardcover
First published June 3, 2003
“‘Andrew,’ I persisted, ‘a ship is a closed world. A voyage is like a small lifetime.’” (p. 247).
“Well, anyway . . . anyway, this began my literary education. She read to me every chance she could: most of Shakespeare, Pride and Prejudice, Anna Karenina, Jude the Obscure, The House of Mirth, Precious Bane—are you a reader, Daniel?”
Daniel almost said yes. He’d once loved language, and there had been a time in the years after his mother’s death when he’d lost himself in literature—fiction particularly. But as he read more, the authors seemed able to reveal and suggest less, became too human, their books a preserved rather than a living mystery; or was it just that what mystery they contained had resonated too inexplicably, painfully with his own?
“No,” Daniel said. “Haven’t picked up a book in years.”
“But you can read?”
“Of course I can.”
“You just don’t?” Amos was clearly perplexed.
“Lost the taste for it.”
“Then you should have someone read to you,” he said. (p. 150).
“You seem fascinated by language,” Daniel said.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Amos replied. “Perhaps because it’s been, in some ways, so unavailable to me.”
Amos went quiet, looking into his own lap. Once more the years accrued, the shadows seeming to curl and char him like paper in a fire. He was, in moments, an old man, seventy, a veteran of the wars, a shell of fled memories. (p. 222).
“The whole letter?” Daniel interrupted with surprise. “You can remember the whole letter after all these years?”
“I can’t read,” Amos replied. “Just as the captain’s eloquence derived from his stutter, my memory, especially of words, derives from my helplessness in this regard. More often it’s shame, not talent, that makes us remarkable, Daniel.” (p. 250).