Beauty, I thought, beauty, what can I say to help this man?
“Yes, tomorrow; then I’ll tell you, Sappho... I’ll tell you what I’ve learned, living in my black sea. How my ship drags anchor. What I’ve heard. I’ve heard some strange things. I can sense someone moving, almost before he moves, a shift of air, let’s say.
“Watch me play jacks with Libus, old soldiers at their fun. I could cheat you...if you gave me half a chance.”
Again that chuckle.
The book lay open and his great arms lay across his lap, fingers up. My father had owned that book. With age it had come unsewed and hung in tatters: the smell of age was there: I rubbed my fingers over pages...
Quickly, he said:
“I like to feel those pages... I wanted to write a book as full of life...give back the thunder of the storm...look how the bugs have eaten the book...see that ripped page...well, where will you keep your Homer?”
And he smiled.
“Shall I read something?”
“Yes...now!”