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Show €ZL^*=.^Ca - ^tTvf»wTb- 'v i ii ^ ' (/a. etc IJ be wild West die cool summer morning I am shaving and using that time of vacy to think over the book I'm writing on die American West, dike my father and his father before him I wear no mustache 1 it is while I am scraping my upper lip, carefully under the iges of my nose, that a particularly cogent statement about the ation of the myth of the West to its raw reality begins to form, is emerging like a sun out of cosmic dust, almost there, just be-ining to shine, when my oldest son whams open the door and rges into the John. Back to dust goes my statement. I turn on n in anger but he doesn't notice, standing there and in a shining ice announcing that he has just decided to be an historian too. : came only to tell me that, and I immediately forgive him. In t, glancing back to the mirror, I regard my youngish face widi proval, think how natural it is that I have such an intelligent 1, and while I'm at it decide diat my book will probably turn t to be a masterpiece. "Are you?" I say neutrally, afraid encouragement will put him "Sure," he pipes cockily. "I'm gonna discover where life came >m." I sigh. He scoots away again before I can point out that history esn't go back quite that far, but then I remember that I didn't low my father either. I lift again my razor, to a face middle-aged d showing it, the face of a man who knows his book has defects, sad face because I know my son's mild hero worship will not rvive his disillusion and revolt, whose inevitability saddens me ore. Yet I've always believed that disillusion and revolt are necessary r sons. In fact, ten years ago when this one was still an infant I is so sure diat I was going to be a perfect fadier that I worried it he have nothing to be disillusioned with or to revolt against. rest 227 |