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336 pages, Paperback
Published April 26, 2016
Rob regarded emotion as slippery and treacherous, like a kind of mud: one slip and you’d be down there, rolling around in it. (229)
In winter, storms boil up the Southern Ocean, making it smoke, chiseling it with dagger-like winds, flogging up welts of swell capped with whiteness, plumes of ice and air that are shed in sheets as the waves push on, pulsing north, low breathing and full of intent.
These waves will try to drown you.
These waves will crack you open.
These waves set you free. (224-225)
But with Dad, everything came together south of the border, so to speak, in his bowels, his endlessly restive, serially malfunctioning bowels. Rarely in the history of colorectal medicine have a set of bowels exerted such complete dominion over one household. Piles, polyps, hemorrhoids, fissures: there was always something the matter with Dad’s back end, some unspeakable condition with whose symptoms – pain, swelling, bleeding – we all in time become intimately familiar. (92-93)