That’s what thinking is best at: deceiving the thinker.
Here comes this black dog, like a fat seal on stumpy legs, barking its head off and wagging its whole body, and in five seconds flat we’re best mates.
Dad’ll be telling Nipper the plumber and TJ the sparky and old Mr. Sharkey, “It’ll all come out in the wash,” or something else that sounds wise but means nothing.
On the CD player, Ella Fitzgerald forgets the words to “Mac the Knife” one broiling night in Berlin over forty summers ago.
She’s very watchable, like the motionless bass player in a hyperactive rock band.
Finally a pair of jolly bear-sized Americans appear, thumping to earth with gusts of laughter and needing the ski-lift guy’s help.
Holly talks about the band Talking Heads, like a Catholic discussing her favorite saints.
Happiness did not enter feudal childhoods, and Klara’s was miserable even by the standards of the day.
