For me, a conundrum: an intelligent boy who can, after viewing a film or reading a novel, close the book or leave the theatre without feeling that the fiction still thrives, unfolding still in the synaptic pulses of the spectator’s mind. Oh my.
Trying to unwrap his brain, I tell story after story, contradiction after contradiction, hyperbole after hyperbole, and while someone else might, though inexplicably nervous, crack a smile despite himself, this boy seems unmoved; he appends non sequiturs easily. Enigmatic, he’s a locked box.
Needless to say, this situation is quite frustrating, especially since he brings me surprises in small paper bags: a slice of chocolate cake for a picnic or a glazed buttermilk donut because he remembered that I grew up in a donut shop. (Obviously, he takes notes; stay wary.)