his father silently

Waves break across the rocky beach, left to right with the current, and he rolls his neck, his shoulders, ready to fight them too. The Old Man always said nobody wins a fight—not that it ever stopped him from starting one.

Say it now, that nobody wins. Say it, I dare you. He spits in the sand.

From the glove box: the Old Man’s hand-carved duck call and pewter flask, the wrinkled photo of Mother (God rest her), her rosary dull with disuse. On the beach the keeled hull already wet with rising tide. When he shuts the truck’s door, beer cans rattle in the bed. He finds one unopened and warm, cracks it high.

To you, he says. Tough old bastard, I’ll give you that. More than you ever gave. Sips timidly, all raw mouth, fat lip, exposed nerves. Blood on the rim of the can.

A tern bobs out past the wave-breaks, dives under and disappears. Squinting, staring, he waits for it to resurface but can’t find it again. Gone forever just like that.

Into the Old Man’s pockets the flask and duck call, the photo. Rosary around his wrist. Don’t look at the face or at the bloody shirt. Don’t you look, he tells himself, and tastes beer already sour when he does anyway. Then carries him to the boat heavy with the years of whiskey and anger, with petrified disappointment, with the weight of his own sin. Lays him on the blanket in the scuffed bilge. Piles rocks atop him.

Finds one mottled with a white scar—quartz, maybe, or mica. Any smaller and he’d keep it to remember him by, the Old Man. But it’s big enough to help weigh him down, so he lays it with the others, folds the blanket around them and ties it closed.

The sun still cold in the sky, night a memory. Someone else’s, maybe. He drags the boat into the churning water, cold in his boots, cold on his legs. Climbs in beside the Old Man. Grips the battered oars, one fight still ahead of him, one fight still behind. Begins the long, lonely trip out to sea.

quiet

Quiet around here lately, I know. Sorry about that. Too much wheel, not enough hamster. In the meantime, visit The Morning News and this year's Tournament of Books, which began in earnest this week.

It's off to a bang, with Kingsolver sweeping the leg of Cotter. That's some good literature.

rip

“Hannah should not be in front of young people. And perhaps he should be in a cage.” --Hunter S. Thompson, talking about novelist Barry Hannah, who died this week.

best friend

"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read."
--Groucho Marx

meat

Dear Jonathan Safran Foer,

I'd like to invite you to dinner. Should you come, I will make you a vegetarian meal because I respect people's individual choices, even though I'm an omnivore, which--in your eyes--seems to make me a bad person. But I have friends who don't drink, either, and I'd no sooner force a Belgian ale on them than I would force bacon on you.

Which is not to say that I don't have my beliefs. I do. I'm a hunter--for meat, not trophies--and I enjoy eating meat, and taking responsibility for it. I fish, too, and I've raised and butchered chickens and ducks. I tend to fall in Anthony Bourdain's camp, and see vegetarianism as a first-world luxury that can be insulting to certain cultures when mishandled as edict or philosophy (except, of course, religious strictures). Those are my beliefs in a nutshell, and they're just that--my beliefs.

If I wouldn't force bacon on you, why would I force my beliefs?

You know what? Maybe you're not getting a fair shake. Admittedly, I'm judging you based only on the strength of the book you wrote telling me that the things I enjoy are not only evil, but ridiculous. At least, according to what you say in Emily Stokes' column about lunch with you.

“...I find a certain kind of foodiness silly, gluttonous and embarrassing.” He pauses, looking up. “Look, taste is clearly the crudest of our senses: this is scientifically, objectively factual. It is less nuanced. Eyesight is extraordinary – hearing, touch. I find people who devote their whole lives to taste a little strange.” He stresses the last words as if this was a vast understatement.

But hey. I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Come on over for dinner. We'll talk about something else to make conversation less contentious. Maybe writing?

Indeed, most of Foer’s responses to my questions about writing tend towards the negative. He used to collect things to inspire him; is this still the case? No, he’s in more of a stripping down phase. Did his wife help edit his book? No, not really. Was there a moment when Foer realised he wanted to be a writer? “No,” he says, meekly. “A swimmer doesn’t like swimming just because he was born with a swimmer’s body.”

Oh, hold on. Really? You're like a reluctant Michael Phelps of writing--not just successful, but born to it, even though you don't want it? Must be rough, when success is thrust upon you unwanted. Listen, even though I'm like a swimmer born with the body of an anchor, I don't begrudge you your success--just the way you talk about it.

So maybe we can't talk about writing, either. What, then? Here's a thought: Let's just talk about you, a topic with you seem absolutely comfortable. I'll make some vegetarian dishes, and you can explain to me how you're not being pretentious, self-righteous or smug. What do you say?

Let me know what night works for you.

Best,

cb

the letter is in the mail

Re: my last post--is two a trend, or does it need to be three? (Mental note: ask USA Today.) On his site, novelist Yann Martel posted a letter President Obama wrote him about his book, "Life of Pi."

More good news! People moved to act by something they read. That means people are still reading, which is, ultimately, the good news in all this.

Do I ever get mail from readers? Yes, I do. And I have to say, it's not always positive. It is, however, always welcome. (This means you, Charlie Munger).

check's in the mail

Last year Dr. Atul Gawande wrote an article for the New Yorker about cost variances in health care in McAllen, Texas. Warren Buffet's business partner, Charlie Munger, liked it--a lot. Enough, in fact, to act upon it.

"[Gawande] had an article last summer that was absolutely magnificent," Buffett said on CNBC's "Squawk Box" Monday morning. "My partner Charlie Munger sat down and wrote out a check for $20,000 to him and he's never met him, never had any correspondence with it, he just mailed it to the New Yorker and he said, `This article is so useful socially.' He says, `Just give this as a gift to the--to Dr. Gawande.'" (via HuffPo.)

Gawande says he donated the money to charity. This is a good news piece, in that it shows that writing can still move some people to act. I'm not considering any other aspects of this, however many there may be. Call me stubborn. I don't care. We need the good news.

support the arts

Improbably, my post "Lucky" has been nominated--along with 78 others--for the 2010 "3 Quarks Daily" Prize in Arts and Literature. This year the contest is being judged by former U.S. Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky, who coincidentally was a judge for the Kathryn Irene Glascock Poetry Prize in 1993, the year I was invited.

The full list of nominees is here, along with an opportunity to vote.

If you read "Lucky" and like it, consider voting, or read some of the other nominated posts and vote for the one you like best. The important thing is not who you vote for, but that you visit the site and vote for someone. 3 Quarks Daily is a good site that works hard to do good things for the literary world. We all need to support organizations like that.