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Indeed, the boy’s real problem wasn’t who he’d become but the fear that he’d done becoming, for somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that the Nathaniel Rothstein of 1998 – as ill-defined on the outside as he was on the inside – wasn’t the Nathaniel Rothstein of forever, that this blob of wet clay was years from the sculpture and the kiln.

I hate this book - it is the last subject I need to be reading about. Reading about pedophilia in the time of the Epstein files is stomach churning. I wish I hadn’t picked it up but 465 pages in I have to finish. These characters are all at the very least disappointing and hardly human. It’s a tough read.

How do we examine the legacy of colonization when the basic facts of its construction are disputed in the minds of its beneficiaries?

The son, of course, insists the best things in life are free. All this was, is, free to him. The schoolchildren here don't need artificial inspiration from people like me. They take chances, pursue dreams, risk climbing out to the highest, furthest limb. They reach out - knowing the ground beneath is soil, soft grass and dandelions.

Born here, parents, born here, always lived here – still, never from here. Their culture becomes parody on my body.

Buoyed by wealth he’s never had to earn, never worked for. He’s never dealt in grubby compromise. And from this vantage, he points a finger – an old finger, the skin translucent, arm outstretched and wavering. He points it at you: The problem. Always, the problem.