“ ‘We all have stories, just as you do. Ways in which he touched us, helped us, gave us money, sold it to us wholesale. Lots of stories, big and small. They all add up. Over a lifetime it all adds up. That’s why we’re here, William. We’re a a part of him, who he is, just as he is a part of us. You still don’t understand, do you?’
I didn’t. But as I stared at the man and he stared back at me, in my father’s dream I remembered where we’d met before.
‘And what did my father do for you?’ I asked him, and the old man smiled.
‘He made me laugh,’ he said.”
“My hope is that in these last moments he’ll show me the vulnerable and tender underbelly of his self, but this isn’t happening, yet, and I’m a fool to think that it will. This is the way it has gone from the beginning: every time we get close to something meaningful, serious, or delicate, he tells a joke. There is a never a yes or no, what do you think, here, according to me, is the meaning of life.”
“Okay okay- the thing about icebergs is you only see 10 percent. The other 90 percent is below the water where you can’t see it. That’s what it is with you Dad. I’m only seeing this little bit that sticks above the water.”
“What is it you say now, what peace is there to be made in the last minutes of the last day that will mark the before and after of your life until then, the day that will change everything for both of you, the living and the dead?”
“This is what is meant by last words: they are keys to unlock the afterlife. They’re not last words but passwords, and as soon as they’re spoken you can go.”
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. He’s lived his whole life like a turtle, within an emotional carapace that makes for the perfect defense: there’s absolutely no way in.”
“In telling the story of my father’s life, it’s impossible to separate the fact from the fiction, the man from the myth. The best I can do is to tell it the way he told me. It doesn’t always make sense, and most of it never happened. But that’s what kind of story this is.”