Moderation within moderation
Shrug
His son did all the right things. He rarely quarreled, succeeded in sports, and even had a girlfriend. Then he grew up, got a good job, and populated his house with travels.
His son had him over for dinner often. A solid man, who cooked while his daughters played and wife talked market updates.
Mr. Roberts, himself, told stories.
Like that time he got mugged in Mombasa. Spent three weeks falling in love in a flophouse, but failed to convince her. Had no cash. Left in the back of an ambulance. Wrecked the days, drank out the nights. Lost a year. Until his son’s mother revived him with ‘why not?’
But the stories would never land. So he would drink and they would smile, gracefully.
His son would drive him home and tell him life was good.
He guessed he should be proud.
“Always drinking! Wasting his time with idiotic friends, spending his money on high-priced whores, and morbidly interested in the stupidest things imaginable, like what cousin this or that baron had married, and how many legitimate and illegitimate children they had. I never understood his need for all that farkakteh small talk. He once spent half an hour explaining the many advantages of having a small Pekinese versus a Great Dane, and he was still going on about it when I got up and left. This, from the same person who made countless contributions to group, ergodic, and operator theory, and published thirty-two major papers in less than three years.” The Maniac
“’Rich people don’t eat garbage,’ the lawyer said a bit testily. ‘Rich people know how to live.’ He picked up another ant and held it up for inspection. ‘If life isn’t about hunting down every strange pleasure and tasting it, then what is it about?’” Missionaries
“How long am I here, in tight trouser and panting? And lost at sea? No, saliva pouring out of my mouth a surf lapping at my cheek. Flat out, hot feelings. Yes this office room brighter than ever, powder falling from the walls, is all that I’ve absorbed into myself spat out? Mercy. All the smokes are smoked. God is on the edge of a knife, the cutting blade” Dark Neighborhood
“People could be good, Furlong reminded himself, as he drove back to town; it was a matter of learning how to manage and balance the give-and-take in a way that let you get on with others as well as your own.” Small things like these
“An alcoholic is someone you don’t like who drinks almost as much as you do. Said Dylan Thomas.” The Last Novel
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