Daughter
Yesterday, at breakfast, I was talking to my daughter. Teaching, really. I was talking about art and science, history and philosophy. Dickens and Calvino. Whistler and Chagall. The gravitas of Bergman and the levity of Tati.
When I paused to take a breath, my daughter turned to my wife and asked “Mommy, what does ‘buffoon’ mean again?”
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