Children and Horace
This is post 3 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.
Then again, it could have been worse, he thought, warily circling the problem. There were the children of his friends. True, Grout had raised three successful college graduates, but one was a born again Christian whose dinner monologues made you hope each supper would be the last; one was a marketer for a video game player that, according to Gwen, would be the downfall of civilization; and one was a chiseling corporate lawyer. Then there was poor Wilson, so happy to have found a good group home for that slow child of his, Rodgers, whose daughter was manic-depressive, and Lance, whose son had overdosed on LSD and now taught transcendental meditation.
Bennett’s eyes rested fondly on the silver-framed photograph, only slightly faded, of his little girl at ten, which had occupied a prominent position on the little table beside him for some fifteen years. Yes, all in all he was lucky. Off duty his son might wear see-through blouses to show off his nipple ring, but most people in his and Gwen’s circle only saw the young man performing in his tux in Brainard Hall with the Symphony. As for Chloe, aside from an addiction to self-help manuals, she was everything a father could wish—beautiful, scholarly, happily married, and a producer of grandchildren—well, one, anyway, so far, a lively four-year-old girl.
Bennett sighed, brushed aside his misgivings about her husband and the amount of time the child spent on the computer, and reached for his Loeb Classical Library edition of Horace, the voice of reason, the solace of premature old age—and whose old age did not come prematurely?
“To me loyal Fate has given a small domain,” he was reading, altering the translation as he saw fit, when he heard the jangle of keys and the answering stirrings of Siegfried and Fafnir, the two German Shepherds Gwen doted on. More quickly he continued, “but she has vouchsafed the fine breath of a Grecian song--” that part was all right—“and a scorn for the vulgar crowd”—surely “vulgar” was more what Horace meant there. The click of the dogs’ claws as they reached the hardwood floor of the entryway arrested his reflections, and he hastily put down his friend.
Continue
Then again, it could have been worse, he thought, warily circling the problem. There were the children of his friends. True, Grout had raised three successful college graduates, but one was a born again Christian whose dinner monologues made you hope each supper would be the last; one was a marketer for a video game player that, according to Gwen, would be the downfall of civilization; and one was a chiseling corporate lawyer. Then there was poor Wilson, so happy to have found a good group home for that slow child of his, Rodgers, whose daughter was manic-depressive, and Lance, whose son had overdosed on LSD and now taught transcendental meditation.
Bennett’s eyes rested fondly on the silver-framed photograph, only slightly faded, of his little girl at ten, which had occupied a prominent position on the little table beside him for some fifteen years. Yes, all in all he was lucky. Off duty his son might wear see-through blouses to show off his nipple ring, but most people in his and Gwen’s circle only saw the young man performing in his tux in Brainard Hall with the Symphony. As for Chloe, aside from an addiction to self-help manuals, she was everything a father could wish—beautiful, scholarly, happily married, and a producer of grandchildren—well, one, anyway, so far, a lively four-year-old girl.
Bennett sighed, brushed aside his misgivings about her husband and the amount of time the child spent on the computer, and reached for his Loeb Classical Library edition of Horace, the voice of reason, the solace of premature old age—and whose old age did not come prematurely?
“To me loyal Fate has given a small domain,” he was reading, altering the translation as he saw fit, when he heard the jangle of keys and the answering stirrings of Siegfried and Fafnir, the two German Shepherds Gwen doted on. More quickly he continued, “but she has vouchsafed the fine breath of a Grecian song--” that part was all right—“and a scorn for the vulgar crowd”—surely “vulgar” was more what Horace meant there. The click of the dogs’ claws as they reached the hardwood floor of the entryway arrested his reflections, and he hastily put down his friend.
Continue
posted by Hobbes at 8:44 PM
7 Comments:
I love this line: "one was a born again Christian whose dinner monologues made you hope each supper would be the last"
Just for contrast, in one of Louis L'Amour's books a key plot point that settles a shoot-out involves reading Plutarch's lives.
Thanks, Doug. I am not familiar with Mr. L'Amour's works, though I think Dr. Weirsdo may have read a few.
A generation gap the size of the Grand Canyan.
I was pretty sure you hadn't. I may have read 60 of them, although it's been awhile and I can't remember which one turns on Plutarch.
I guess I don't know Dr. Weirsdo as well as I thought. He has never read Louis L'Amour, so he can't offer any illumination on the point either. If anyone knows or finds out, I'd be interested to hear that plot.
damn nice words. I have to stop here because it is after two thrity and I will not remember it.
Look foreard to reading the rest tommorow.
Thank you Alice. I'm flattered that such a good writer likes it.
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