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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