We leap in bounds, Rémi says, and our bounds are giant leaps. We hop from tome to tome, from Dostoyevsky to Melville to Proust to Joyce, in hopes that the expansive universes coagulating before us would resemble ours closely enough so that we might glean from it the lessons we never learned from the Fathers we never had.
And that's it, isn't it, Rémi says, finishing off his glass. We were men without Fathers, and we wound ourselves within the wise words of the heavyweights, wishing that someday we would walk with them ourselves.
Show us the world, we cried. Show us what it means to be alive!